my Words


My mother had

A different suffering,

an other strife

to mine.

Or was it just the same?

She had a lot she wanted to say,

She had thoughts to express,

But to her dismay

He didn’t want to hear.

He wouldn’t let her speak.

He found her logic weak.

At first she swallowed what she felt,

Choosing instead to soothe his fear

Of hearing her view

Or hearing who

She was.

That was best,

She thought.

She smiled her smile of victory.

She had conquered herself.

No need for self-expression here.

She’d be her self elsewhere.

Her words were neatly locked away,

She stored them for another day

that never came

it seems.

For when she tried to unpack them,

Or simply let him see she did have some,

He raged against her audacity.

Rage back!

I always cried

To myself.

Speak!

Be

Who you are!

You are your thoughts,

Your words are you.

Without them

How does your heart express its depth?

Or your mind reflect its brilliance?

Despite your dazzling smile,

How do you shine without your words?

How do you live or breathe?

So I have been my word.

My words have been

My breath that feeds

My mind, my heart, my Life.

Thirsty,

I drink words of every sound,

From people or books that I have found

Fascinating;

and pour them into

Every ear I pass.

My words, their words

Kind words, good words,

Words that teach and words that heal

Or simply words that make you feel

Alive.

Words that open up my mind

Or stretch my open hand

Across the gulfs that

Only words can bridge…

Yet, with him

My words fail

To make their mark

They don’t ignite even a spark.

I’m absolutely free to be

But he’s completely bored with me.

When unresponsive to my pleas,

He lets me speak, ignoring me…

I’m left with other words.

Of Rage.

Words that harm, that hit and hurt,

that spill

my discontented heart,

And scorch the coldness they receive

And scatter my anger in the wind

hopelessly.

With all my words not yet spent

they continue to flame

still seeking vent

and spill

Now silently and wet

Onto pages of poetry

That  journal my insatiable

Expression.

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One Response

  1. Poetry is a good vehicle for the expression of inner most feelings and thoughts and the possibility of connecting to another. Freedom of expression is very important to everyone and being a woman should not mean that one is subservient to a man and be quiet about her opinions.

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