Poetry Title
Concrete sheds and smears my flesh
across it’s pebbly skin
whats left is red mushy soup
Dirt never hurt me like this
soft squishy squirming dirt
tall towers of man made stone
ache and moan in my ears
in my bones
in my blood
I stuff my mouth, nails, hair
with soil
maybe I am a plant
meant to soak in the sun
in the swamp
but even that
has been turned into a prison