Inspired by How It Feels to be Colored Me by Zora Neale Hurston.

My life, my being, who I am can all be collected as random clutter, trash, and miscellany in a dirty, worn up, stepped on tan paper lunch bag. One bag, out of several, scattered among the streets of a world in chaos. A world of flashing colors and fire and static and void. Yet, also, a world at peace. A world full of luscious flora and songs and dancing and light. But, I’m just a piece of litter being pushed ever so slightly by the winds of fate along the gum covered sidewalks of a world. To be ignored. To be seen. To be eventually thrown into a trash can. Hopefully. The objects inside make no sense when put side by side individually, like a police lineup. But, there is a story. A lost story. Only told by a person who is not no longer here, but hard to find. Yet, even then, no matter how hard that person would try, they would never be able to fully tell that story to anyone but themself. A soggy half eaten italian sandwich made with cured meats and fresh mozzarella on toasted ciabatta, slightly moldy. Four wilted roses, one of which has been burned, picked from long gone bushes, aside one freshly picked. A piece of rainbow colored quartz, glistening in the sun. A destroyed rosary, its beads scattered in the bag. Many many many keys, some of which go to lockets and doors and drawers full of secrets in houses no longer existent. A half empty bottle of personal lubricant and a packet of condoms, some of which have been opened and used. A black bralet and a pair of ripped lacy pink panties. And a few sticks of glue, long since been used. There is no story to be gathered by someone who found my bag on the street, just some trash. Trash to be tossed… in a trash can. A story that is lost. Yet, not gone.

This poem is about: 
My family
My community
My country
Our world



This deserves more reads, I would recommended using structure or shape in your poems to make it more interesting to look at. My opinion^

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