my life is a tiny pickle
green, tight, thin skin and minuscule
smiling to lift them higher
but here is how my storm begins
too many tumbles in the weeds

my limbs trailing on shaky ground
lost hold on my everyday path
strangers are first, my heritage
no x-ray vision in my sight
my strength, withered a little bit

to exert weathered eyes here
leaves tiny slivers to myself
all the heckling and nagging
cemented between two tycoons
like gaiety and slavery