A man with no home saw the anger in our eyes and asked if we had just been in a war, not knowing that the war still rages on. Our home is a war zone where the kitchen tables rumbles like thunder and the walls shake from bomb attacks. Sadness fills rooms with saltwater and white sharks feeding on misunderstandings and words that cannot be taken back ones spoken. A man with no home knows more about homes than the people living in them. Maybe that is why my father will not acknowledge the homeless.

Poetry is for the bruised and scared we spill our guts onto paper and pen our minds explode emotions for us to write in words

Writing is a coping mechanism and even though we might not save ourselves we keep on opening our hearts with words

Never stop giving pieces of yourself to the world nor stop taking pieces to replace the empty spaces with new found words