A house is filled with knifes Plates, cups and spoons. Necessities like towels, Water and food. But no one discusses The Dispenser: The person who is used.
They are expected to give They are used... They are almost never given, Like a maid with no pay They’re only allowed to “do.”
Eerie as the night They lie in wait For another bruise. They are expected to be quiet—Shh!
e v e n y o u ‘r e a b u s e d. . .
There is no morning light To bring out a muse. They are as stuck as hair Tamed by glue.
I should know.
I was a dispenser, too.
They say traveling is fun. I like to see the children in The foreign places run. I like to feel like the happiness in my Life has just begun,
But I think I forget where I came from: Broken windows and houses filled With loaded guns. Bruises that when touched Are no fun.
They say secret secrets aren’t fun They say secret secrets hurt everyone.
I can move from city to city And feel sprung But I can never shake the emptiness That follows me from Where I’m from.
Why do we always carry heavy chains From past remains?
It doesn’t matter where I go, I will always feel like my fuel tank Is on low. . .
