Written in a shoe box
Are little keepsakes and tiny poems.
Clue not.
What keeps any sense
In dispense of medicine..
left mine at home
And fly the zone....

Like listen hard.
Its being seen as soft...
Your ears are whispers.
And your dreams are clothe
When the other side
Is black and buried.
The clothe is mud
And your hands are hurried...
In bitter haste.
Hush your angry tone
The little girl
Does not wash the rag alone
The rag is bloodied
And now you see he's scarred
What once was soft.
Now you see he's hard