Objects, Items, Junk.

The objects
tell a story
mine, and
there own.
Items, Junk
Furniture.

The beads
That I bought,
from a market stall.
Handcrafted
by a gypsy
selling her work
instead of herself
in order to maintain
her integrity
and save
her soul.

Sleepless nights
the tent flapping
in the hot August winds


The smoke
Incense
Burning.

She left
Sixteen.
Distressed.

Freedom
Love
Unity
Freedom

Drugs
Starvation
Conformity
Conformity.

The beads
she strung
the red
the yellow
the green.
Rope, string
tied.

Monotony
to ease
to  distract.

The beads
strung, and
sold
and hung
in my room.
Objects
Items
Junk. 






Id never wrote this sort of style before, so I thought Id give it a whack. 


amberlee,
xx