As I was scrolling down though, the numbers were mixed up. There were two poems numbered 7, the second one was actually 8, then it went to 10. So my poem, which was supposed to be 9, got omitted. Talk soon, Chuck. Felled across a hostile landscape, it stretches like some form of all life that died escaping from where trees struggle for identity in the sparse green choked oasis of a cement desert.
Roads span all directions now.
Too many options tease and stifle motivation fostering detachment. No longer is it two roads converging in a Frost-gentle wood, but a continent of weaving interstates hitchhiked by homeless poets whistling lyric to the screeches of a metal jungle. I think I understand the homeless, sometimes the only freedom, the only choice a man has left is to choose to not choose. This special collection will include poetry written by youth from Hillbrook Detention Center, where Georgia Popoff recently conducted a workshop. You are about to read something truly extraordinary.