So I started reading this book expecting something similar to Milk and Honey, but was I quick to judge. The same let's-press-enter-and-call-it-poetry old thing, but this one managed to tug on my heartstrings; I was 5o pages in and getting bored and then one poem hit me so hard that chills were sent down my spine and the book became a wee better.
This book is not any Emily Dickinson. Sylvia Plath. Byron. Walt Whitman.
It is a so-called-modern-poetry book. Man, I don't even know if it deserves to be called poetry, as it lacks any trace of artistic language. But it makes you feel. Empathise. It strikes you.
And yes
everything looks
like this
and they all
form
basic sentences.
(there are some calligrams too.)
But this book simply is. It doesn't aspire to be the greatest of the greatest. The thoughts of a strong woman tossed on a piece of paper. Relatable. Simple. Powerful. Call this poetry and I will hunt you down, but it was nice; yes, that is the word.

2(.5) stars for those cold chills down my back that have lingered for a while.