Green should be for growing.

Mama just drove home with a
plastic cup of green beer;
how many have you had?

I roll over on my parent's
bed, crossing my legs,
asking
"he won't be drunk for
church in the morning,
will he?"

Mama shakes her head
no then pauses.
"Do you like him?
You're always so
concerned about him."

(I don't like him, I love him
but I force myself
to accept silence, the
unblissful known.)

I can't always hold in
my questions for you
when you're so close
yet so far from

thriving

in the
garden of my heart.

-
Written 3/21/15 @ 9:12 PM
I create way too many poems from conversations...