Wild Child
S. Y. Headley
My anger’s red,
bloody red.
I feel like I could
like a wild lion.
My crying is soft,
drips and drops,
mist over the blue sky.
I’m a wild child,
roaming free.
I’m a wild child
with nobody to tell me NO.
I’m a wild child
with ratty brown hair
like logs and bark.
With eyes hazel nutty
as a rabid squirrel.
With clothes like a field of
I’m a wild child,
whose anger is read as blood,
sadness white as the clouds
loathing as black as fire’s coal.
I’m a wild child…
or am I just free?


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