Poetry Is My Protest: Poem 22

I come from a land of yard art and hand painted signs scratched on jagged, plywood canvas.
I come from a kingdom of flea markets and dilapidated barns.
I grew up amidst rebel flags and Sunday services where Saturday's sins mix with the smell of hymnals and cheap cologne.
 I come from a land of dirt yards and dollar stores,
of rusted porch swings and hallelujah.
I come from a land of street walkers and toothless ladies pushing carts.
I come from sweet tea and cigarettes, arcade rooms and factories.
I come from nowhere I've seen.
I come from nowhere I've been.
I see a city whose foundation
is never fated to extinction.

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