Where The Beach Met The Streets

Rachel McDonald


I’m not part of your 10%
or your revolutionary movement.
The meanings and reasons
aren’t part of my being.
Guerilla women, afro-centricity, and graffiti
don’t flow through me.
I’m not part of your elite inner circle,
by your rules, I’m just a commercial.
I’ve got a different style,
with blue skies, and beaches in my eyes.
Meanwhile, you enterprise
for rights, liberation, and anti government.
It took a while, but I got the hint.
In between the lines of your existence
I just don’t fit.
I’m completely sold out,
asleep and lying to myself.
It’s time to rest my soul at home.
I’ve been gone for far too long.
But in any situation,
the bad placement
stood out like an ovation,
my place of sanctum in your bed
eluding judgment of them.
Before the miles were cause for divide,
now the distance dissecting is our lives.
The negativity seeps and creeps
over into our tangled sheets,
and I can’t remember a place where
the streets met the beach.



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