Written with precision her poetry is far from prison - no yearning masses camped in homes suffering horribly executed poems forced to endure the badly grammered hammered with needless words buffering while under house arrest; slammered Incarcerated in unpoetic hells Jailed birds in private cells praying to be liberated on an aptly dated day The 5th of November! Remember! Remember! Remember her name
Through this life we will all need that moment to cry those tears that we hold deep down inside of our heart afflicting our minds, as those very tears we hide from preying eyes as we go even deeper behind the walls of steel and stone, were hurt and pain becomes our self made prison of life were we chose to hide our feelings and emotions to the point of having us feeling, like a cage tiger waiting to be free to roam through the jungles once again free and wild as it was written to be not to be caged and not be free. ...
(Originally in Write a Poem involving the Breasts comp.)
That guy who said I've got 'small tits' When he was drunk out of his wits, Causing mother dear to have fits (I'd invited her to the Brits) - I'd knee him in the dangly bits Or blacken his eyes with my mitts! Hope girl he was with gives him nits!
Sunday was silenced by Saturday night, a split lip sips coffee from a worlds greatest mum mug.
Little ones won't get dressed today, stay wrapped in a blue ray. They know Disney isn't real, they know which characters are at play and all their lines.
A head scarf keeps her mind from spilling out onto the supermarket, sunglasses stop the glare. Her parking lot fists, smash against the steering wheel, fingers tremble and clench the deepening breaths of a private crisis.