Cracks

Cracks

I feel comfortable

Here.

This place.

Maybe not comfortable.

But definatley not scared.

My Grandma is

Here.

She drinks too much.

Tries to hurt her self.

It’s safe for her

Here.

The state of Ohio says so.

I don’t see patients

Shuffling.

Blank.

Lost.

I don’t smell their rank unbathed bodies.

The stale urine.

Baby powder.

I see through the cracks.

I am only a child.

But I see them.

What they could have been.

What they want to be.

What they’ll never be.

I can almost hear

Their silent screams.

(written by April Trice)

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3 Responses

  1. This is so sad….and it could be any one of us one day.

  2. I’m guessing April is your daughter. Her poems are mature and thoughtful. Thanks for sharing.

  3. Sorry, I had a senior moment when I left the previous comment. I thought I saw two names with the last name Trice. I do love your poetry and do find them mature and thoughtful. I view your blog on a regular basis. Please forgive my slip of the mind.

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