Many inmates need housing when they come home. If you would be willing to help someone locate a residence upon exiting prison, please visit Inmate Housing Profiles.

Boderic Komolafe #01989148

Blood Milk

This is the mother that sells her food stamps for diaper money,
This is the grandmother that puts her coin purse in her bra, just so they won’t take it from me,
This is gris gris, grave dirt and bullet shells
This is the young lady sneaking out of the window headed to the hotel,
A bombshell,
But stupidity is a belief,
This, is the young man throwing a smoking gun into the water,
But refusing to go to the altar,
The young lady that was so blessed to survive the worst,
But still carries a razor blade in her purse,
The teen that sold his last bag to an undercover cop
The man that tilts his liquor to the sky until he’s had the last drop
The doper, the junkie, the fiend,
The girl that’s been pimped on since she was 15
This is 20 years of street cred, now laying in a wet gravebed,
This is praying every night for things other than your daily bread,
This is not trusting your friends, but telling yourself it’s all in your head,
This is the equivalent of drinking a glass of common sense,
This is what you get when you beat life with clenched fists…
…This, is Blood Milk, you need this.



See all poetry for Boderic Komolafe #01989148