Colors of golden green shades
cradle aching bones, as I daydream
of my love for olives, how innocent
my thoughts have become these days.
Drifting away to a day I stood, knocked kneed
at a county fair, wearing pigtails, a sundress,
dirt tween my toes and the taste
of cotton candy still lingering upon my tongue.
I leave my redwood apartment, on the east side
of the city in New York, bitter cold shades nip my nose,
people often mistake me for a mafia descendant, wearing
shades of ruby red bloodstains of ancestors; many
linger around, trying to shake sins of their grandfathers-
but not I.
I just scuff my boots along this cracked pavement.
I'm of Asian / English decent, with a mix of native
american roots- but my tree has been uprooted
so many times that many bystanders dont give a damn
what I am or where I originated from; as long as I mean
them no harm.
(Nobody trusts anyone anymore)
I wear a mask like others do,
allowing these hazels to gaze
upon sorrow like its the norm,
and for so many reasons I dont
want to leave this place.
New York has allowed me to find myself again
just a 70's daydreamer, holding hands with the homeless
and being proud to say I live in Corn Hill;
my ancestors
call me home, and soon Ill need to go back to a place
where Ill eat olives in private, smell cotton candy
and blend in silently along avenues of churches
and unforgiving people, becoming silent once again.
