Roots
"Gray jackets, two sizes too big Cigarette boxes, two sizes too small I am one with fresh baked brownies And ever-growing parsley. The outside smells like Newly cut grass and my lungs Smell like my native American roots. Breathing in the scent of sage and Withering spirits I am not at peace. There is a storm inside my soul and My head is raging like the fires My mother's mother's mother was Burned alive in for being the devil. My twisting hair like hurricanes Curls around my neck like rope You know The ones my father's ancestors We're hanged in. There is gunpowder and pasta sauce Underneath of my cracking nails They say Italians have big eyes And rosy cheeks It is because we have seen too much And smiled while we were dying. My mother is a witch. She sings of living ghosts and Hottie totties She says "this too shall pass" But what is engraved in your soul What is marked in your history What is stuck to your skin Like bubblegum on combat boots And cherry flavored black lipstick, These are the things that make you Who you are. These things that claw their way Into your heart These are your roots. Embrace them For they manifest themselves In Gray jackets And cigarette boxes." -Alex