There is always a bite
to looking different
whether mild habanero
or sharp like the ghost
the flesh is game
to be dragged across
man-made barriers
invisible to nature
which never divides
the difference.
The twitting of words
that brings out groans
is a venom that looms
over language profound,
the poet can but wander
like water all around
while cholera returns as
history repeats with
the grounding of science
the only sound.
It is the same old story-
old woman in a shoe
feeding her hungry children
a poor man’s gruel.
When your moral compass
is skewed by gold
Midas touches everything
from bangles to commode,
while dark skinned babies
are destined to be abhorred
In a white, white world.
Welcome to dystopia
land of constant fear,
the disconnect
from common sense
resides here in
the halls of major
players – where does
mania end? Is it
where dementia
begins? Oh how we
sin, sin, sin.
Anne's mediocre poetry 