Elizebeth Turnquist

faulty form

This is body, this is my skin,

These are the walls I live in

Not a rich house, nor a pretty one,

At least you’d think I’d get function

Dreary walls with faulty foundation

Stands up to the weather, barely

I put pictures up to decorate

But still find I can’t escape

This is my home and my prison.

Published by

S Elizebeth Turnquist

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