Blonde eyes To match her hair Life is mean She counts her blessings Hopes for the best
Bags full of diapers Cars waiting in line Smell coming from the load Ashamed it was mine He noticed my insulin pump
I find richness In the mixture In what others disdain Young people lost Between two cultures
Why can’t I choose to be somewhere in the middle? Surrounded by extremes Measure everything With a grain of salt
The news hit me Like a punch in the gut I threw up two times From the pain Knowing that I
Destruction is fun But cannot be undone Smashed Trashed Crumpled
My grandfather told my father when he proposed to my mother on one condition
Left on a leash Is no way to live He disappeared I like to imagine He’s running in a field
Life is good A little luxury A cup of coffee Served with toast Consumed lazily
It’s not pretty When I cry People get almost as embarrassed as I
My pump Constant companion Of my disease My sensor Resembles a feeding
Her fingernails Natural Long Pointed On fingers
If I could draw a tree In all it’s complexity Would you be impressed? If I could draw a human face It would be but a trace
Don’t talk down to me I am not a child! Even children Deserve respect
Most women are cooks But a man who cooks Is a chef She cooks over and over To feed the masses