The Blinded by the White

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This collection of poems is my life stretch in plain sight, I feel it so well Oliver Gardens was put together with much love For the gene, stimulated sense of emotion, poetry is life, Yes we lived the days playful well, nights joyfully expressing culture Religion and self-reliance embedded in the notion we are one. Oliver Gardens with a diversity of blooms seated in the far corner of Wilfred Bucks common, this was my childhood playground, 1963 was The year nothing was ever the same after a shower of rain boys playing football over bush, Four houses to the right two to the left Bustamante created a scheme, Friends was scarce back then the beginning was lonely eight families in total, David, Babyboy, Paul, James, Rue and Toney. Oliver Gardens was never a

never seemed to be any plan and there never had been. He couldn’t see past his next opportunity to silence the voices in his head, all the white noise caused by the lack of any kind of connection, he was blinded by it. He would sometimes flash back to that little boy who would refuse to sit down in church, why he refused remained a mystery, just more white noise. No, there would be no lessons learned from his dance with demise. Lessons gone unlearned tend to linger, until they can be absorbed. He was doomed to keep repeating his awkward education, he was blinded by all the white noise in his head. There was no way he could control it, the creature inside him; his dark passenger, was there even any hope? How many chances would he get? Why so many?