At times winter visits early,
Spitting fragments of yesterday’s snow,
To strike an already scarred face.

Yet, at other times the curve of its finger
Interlocks with the conscience’s
As it blabbers on like an infant.

We are all pieces of paper,
Riding the morning breeze.

We ride elegantly,
Without much strife,
Until it halts.

Until we are stranded
Upon the sidewalk
Scraped for the
Flakes of white.

Until someone takes hold
Of our flesh.
Etches their name
Without being told.
Before boldly erasing,
While avidly cursing,
Our blue lines.

It has been said that my mother came from floor cleaners and fruit picking.
It has been said that my father came from chicken coops and lawn mowers.
Would it be said I came from ink stains and sidewalks?

I have found that the skill of peacekeeping with the various parts of yourself is useless.
In the morning it is the strongest that will rise.

How can the heart mend?
When I break it over and over?
How can a heart fend?
When I strike it over and over?

When I look in the mirror I say it was them
They couldn't handle a twisted man
But the mirror is cracked split before me
I am that mirror, The mirror is me.