Weapons create war.
War brings destruction.
Peace is born from understanding and love.

I knit those words together
so you can pull them over yourself,
on a cold day
and always remember,
Its me keeping you warm.

I cough words
onto a page,
and hold it up to the world.
They call it art, they call it poetry.

of skin, arms, legs, and
chin. The only thing
that grows is the hair and the nails
on my fingers and my toes. I take

this prison with me
as I leave.  I paint it with golden
glossy dyes and red polish. So, it shines
over the men that befriend and

abolish. Most don’t see this
cage. It fits me as I age. I can fly. But
I'm not free. I can travel the world
But I take this little girl curled up in a ball

and flung around my shoulders
as a shawl with me. And she weeps. So, I wipe
her eyes with sunflowers and rose gardens
till it looks like we're pardoned. That's key.

How ironic it is
To be born
Just to die-