Sunday, March 25, 2007

To Write

I have a poets words but not a poets bravery
Miles of paper inked with my heart in drawers hidden from the eye,
I turn to these blank pages for peace and watch as they save me

In stacks of red leather, embroidered flowers, flip book, composition black and white
My gift stands untouched and unjudged by the world
There in their pages exists a reserve of warmth, power, spite, love and anger

Emotions so strong they are indescribable
At night I lay in prayer hoping that my children never feel this level of pain
Only to wake and believe this level of love is the genetic gift I am born to pass down

Verses so caged they fight against the societally trained walls of my being
Then my heart opens, purges and flys
Allowing my words to glide at such altitudes I swear they summon rain

I stand in the mist of their tribal call feeling purified
Moments of bliss surrounded by the freedom of letting go, drenched in my own song
Only to watch the world and the pieces it tries to take from me while I seek my redemption

I kneel to rebuild with logic and rationale a concerete prison of loneliness
Feeling the severing of my soul as I withdrawl from the world I usually jump to paint
And there with bruised knees and bruised heart I wait to heal myself again

Tears streaming down my exhausted face

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