by Suzanne Chick
God help me
That man’s mouth and his
Make me weak
Make dead ends appear as open roads
Deceit’s sharp edges smooth into a gentle truth
Misdeeds turn to reparations
Stolen things into philanthropy
Is there even such a thing as sin
When it comes to him?
Suzanne Chick was born and raised in central New York. She grew up in a large family of daydreamers, artists, and musicians. She works as a nurse but prefers to write, and does so whenever it strikes her. She loves discovering a new poem on paper or finding one within herself that needs to come out.