Let's go back to "our roots" well that statement is out of place.
I know you didn't just tell me that and straight to my face.
You're not even planted nor do you have yourself a pot
When the past last beyond its place the roots begin to rot.
Nip, prune, repot yourself and recognize your grace.
About the Creator
{L.B.}
I write, draw, and sing my feeling and a few facts if I feel like it. I'm funny but don't laugh at me, I may cry. It's fine im an artist. Huggs?
The Fish Song
The room didn’t smell like disinfectants. Its fragrance seemed light and not overbearing. A soft mixture of lavender and mint permeated the space. No beeping machines or any tubes hooked up to four-year-old Kaleeka. Her cacao skin seemed to glow from the light over her head. The family, save for one and the doctors and nurses exited the room like a trail of saints showing their last vestiges of regard.
By Skyler Saunders6 days ago in Fiction
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