Their nails-on-chalkboard voices
filled the halls. Every day, I’m,
walking through their swarms,
was drowned by a sea of snootiness and conformity,
invective and thoughtlessness and yuppie echoes
and mirrorism and insult and swine-talk.
Year after year I was subject
to their condescension, the self-made pedestal of ego
from which they shouted down at me,
throwing spears of jagged jibes. Their voices irked:
phony voices annoyed, saturated in selfishness,
became the world, became my routine.
My life growing dimmer by the second,
caked in the snobby twang of their venomous valley-girl and
To this day I’d like to throw their bodies and actions
on the white picket fences of suburbia
that doubtlessly ran along their front yards.
© Heath Brougher
Excerpt from the book “Imperfect Paths”
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Foreword . . .
How many people can say they have not walked on rough terrain to get to where they are today? Most of us have been bruised and beaten to find out who we really are within; to find joy in this life we have been given. We are flawed beings with imperfect paths, and those turbulent journeys can either make us or break us.
It is easy to blame our past wrongs, the people who have tarnished our trust, and the bad bets the world throws at us. But we still hold the power to make a choice to become better than the humans who hurt us; to be the voice of change by learning from the experiences which have attempted to break us. Along the many roads traveled, the decisions we make will determine who we are to become.
Take a moment to walk in another’s shoes. The poets here have opened their Pandora’s Box, not to release the personal demons that taunt or once to keep them confined, but to share how to sever the weights one is shackled to.
Donna J. Sanders, Author
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