Trapped Anger
with your meth lab soul,
and your rusted down
single wide trailer feet,
prodigal, where will you go now?
your mother's tears,
her cigarette burnt quilt...
your daddy's hand tools pawned
for pills and diapers.
pictures piled in a box,
wrapped in American nightmare...
you hold your baby close,
staring at a blank screen.
high school hero, college dropout,
deserter, small time criminal...
you can still smell the sunlight,
cant see past the rain.
the song of America
played on tin roofs, in hollows...
haunted by trapped anger
that has no name!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Added by Poetry Lover
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