You must think being with you,
had been a walk in the park?
if, littered after dark
without street lights,
with a psycho serial narcissistic schizo, after you,
As you tiptoe across shards of glass,
too the bottom of your shoes,
by the way are two sizes too small,
as it rains, and you’re wearing red,
with an enraged, escaped bull
on the loose.
I’m guessing someone else wouldn’t mind, could probably tolerate walking
that shady area of that park,
in the midst of crossfire,
by opposing gangs on either side,
as they stop in they’re tracks,
and begin yelling obscenities and gawking.
Well, I survived the different scenarios,
a few times, as I used to stroll on by, the cross walk,
in the darkest part,
of the park’s walk,
into your unlucky abyss,
of natural disaster’s, bliss.
Each time upon speaking,
your pitty party became too rowdy, with a need,
too be always right and heard,
which became .
Its quite intriguing, how no one sees the danger,
until it’s too late,
as a partially working light in the park, blinks,
showing two faces,
of a lunatic’s anger.
Yet he had to be all that was heard, so I shuffled off quickly,
before being shot down, from his retaliation of senseless words.
Poetry By Tamara Dorsey-Moore
Thinker on the Loose
Copyright ©. 2017