she walks prospect avenue in the rain.
dead eyes, sore feet
the flowers have wilted into
the shadows of acceptance.

she finds the corner
and the last light lit,
wants a match for her cigarette.

a ****** that has found her god.
a needle and a bed of thorns.


the beep from a car's horn,
so a customer waits,
swings open a rusty gate.

and when that door

slams

shut

the prisoner of light asks,

"where have all the flowers gone?

He's embarrassed,
I'm just too much to bear.
The way I have my body
And the way I cut my hair.
He's embarrassed,
There's a problem in my walk
Even problems in my posture
And the way I like to talk.
I was never really bothered,
I didn't really care...
Until he was embarrassed of
Me, his daughter.
He's embarrassed I go to therapy.
Me, his daughter.
He's embarrassed I have anxiety.
Me.

I guess I'm just too embarrassing...