This pen pulls tears straight from my heart. Only vulnerable with words on paper. The verse says poems don’t heal. I retreat. A war waged between the hater in my head and the creator in my heart. Line my soul with armor, a safe space to accept me from within. Own who I am.
Bag People, we are.
No longer contained to our physical being.
Some carry one, some carry two, others carry more, but hardly any carry none.
Leather, canvas, fabric, and plastic in all shapes and colors
Walk the Bag People down the city streets, clinging tightly to our treasures
Papers, phones, books, computers, and pills all crammed in.
No longer satisfied with just what’s within