Tuesday, May 16, 2017

The Discarded Flower

The junkie girl, "sleeping" in the sun
Stretching out her legs
Blocking the sidewalk (ever so slightly)
Choking on the sympathy of strangers.
Her hair is a bit knotted
Her skin is a little bit gray
You will never speak to her
There is nothing you can say.
She is the discarded flower
With her beauty quickly fading
No longer the object of desire
Out in the rain- waiting.
Burnt out- like ash from a cigarette
Used up- like a cotton.
Out of sight.
Out of mind.
Out of money.
Out of time.


  1. Tracy...feelings of such gratitude and regard flood my ability to access words to communicate to you the value of your willingness to speak of the shadow; your shadow...describing with such unrelentingly beautiful honesty, the raw, ugly , and painful dance with the lover/drug...You are a voice that brings the unspeakable shame, pain, and humanness of addiction out into the light of awareness. The detail, the constant weighing and comparing of the non-life, anti-life, you clawed your way out of, and the life you consciousnessly choose and treasure each day. A life you are willing to dance with, fight with, be real in...from the mundane to the miracles ...i thank you for saying yes to your calling...you are doing a fucking awesome job of it. deep bows . may your life be long and meaningful to it's end, and beyond. All the best in life and death, Carol