New freckles on my cheeks
A new gray hair comes every week
The lines across my face
And the space between my teeth
We feel the quarantine
The air around is so compact
And the social posting mean
Stress informs just how we act
There is no in between
Touch, a lost sensation
We stay staring at our screens
To feel connected to our nation
Police keep killing blacks
Despite how loud we beg
As we cry, hit with tear gas
Rubber bullets beat our legs
First you lose your job
Then lose a life to the disease
Then you see more murders
By the "sweet and scared" police
New freckles on my cheeks
A new gray hair comes every week
The lines across my face
And the space between my teeth
Between this, the killings and quarantine
Only one goes left unseen
About the Creator
Ivy Rozen
Writer and poet with published articles, email campaigning experience, teaching experience, and a completed poetry residency with Free Verse, where I finished my first book of poems, Runcation, on sale now at www.IvanaWrites.com
Stuck in Place
Amy whistled as she walked through her front yard, looking for any sticks she could pick up and throw into the pile she and her brother were making. They had a big windstorm recently; as such, all the trees in their yard had suffered some damage in some loss of sticks. Or perhaps losing those sticks was a good thing since their trees probably needed to be pruned anyway. Amy wasn't sure.
By Rebecca Patton6 days ago in Fiction
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