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written by: Luana Sakurano



i don't think of it
my heads' hornet nest
the moon winking down
la Luna, watching
infinite patience
as mother nature
oh to be the moon
instead of a girl
with voices, demons
and rolled up tightly
a sleeping bag, red
as a robins' breast
only protection
from the snarling beasts
from the real monsters
they have human shapes
but are not human
              not human
              not human
that's what they told me
whispered like treason
the church elders, wise
men to some but fools
and wolves clothed as sheep
to those with half a
brain, and so it was
that i was cast out
as an albino
lion, driven from
my pride, usurpers
my mum saw evil
she packed up my bags
when i was fifteen
just a grasshopper
so these streets are mine
Londons' dreaming stones
where i lay my head
you only need the
stars and you are home
home is a shopping
bag stuffed with my clothes
home is a shattered
window I climb through
in search of respite
from the fickle cold
a cat with claws out
sunk into my back
vertebrae fusing
home is a cup of
hearty soup, minestrone
is my favorite
the van comes around
and there's a story
or two to be heard
while we gather
with open fingered,
gloved hands on warm cups
and for the first time
in eons of black
i feel human, just
this once and I ask
if they have room at
the inn, Bethlehem
and for once, they do



I was sixteen when I ended up homeless for the first time, these are just some feelings about that.

Luana Sakurano

Luana Sakurano

Luana is a shy English poet living in the countryside of Belgium. She welcomes all critiques, be they long or short <3
Luana Sakurano

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