It was poetic,

her tears washing my t-shirt,

and rinsing her sorrows

in the follicles of the cotton,

picking black girl,

 

some don’t know

that when she cries today

on my open chest,

her tears are gazing at Ivory,

and her mind is on bittertart and sour

memories,

reminiscent of the dark reaper

taking her mother

while she was so young

 

to the glistening gates

of heaven.

 

1 Comment

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s