Muted Indignation
Your head spills over with muted indignation.
Indignation from things I don’t--
I can’t know.
Because I can’t hear anything
Your head spills over with muted indignation.
Indignation from things I don’t--
I can’t know.
Because I can’t hear anything
Mama, love me as a mother would.
Nurture me gently as the deer does her fawn.
Shield me honestly as the raven does her chicks.
Hold me firmly as the chimpanzee does her infant.
Existing in ethereal mourning
far longer than we should have.
To wallow in the reliability of grief,
To seek comfort in its patterned trail,
I’m scared.
I’m scared
When I think about
What is going to happen to us.
Will it be centuries?
When the world goes quiet, I dream.
I dream of traveling through time, just a simple spree.
A simple spree through decades, eras past.
Eras past, a time where I feel joy at last.
Short hair,
A t-shirt and shorts,
Shouldn’t change me from feminine
To “buddy,”
And being a girl
Shouldn’t erase the sports I’m good at,
one stick
one swipe
that represents my love
my adulthood
so where is my lipstick?
who's borrowing it tonight?
who's borrowing my courage coat tonight?
I need both to appear ready for anything
take note of everything I say
my feelings are rooted in symbolism and poetry
my femininity washes over me
and a guilty realization sets in
I get to play both parts in my head
man and woman
what can only be described as an unhealthy need for chaos
chaos that fills an emotional void
to be devoid of feeling is to loose your humanity
your identity
your self, and sense of self.
I lost it once, too.
being seven is being quiet
and tongue tied
and lied to
being seven is running in circles
drawing in lines
speaking in riddles
being seven is rotating through personalities
waves
wash
against
the
To be a poet is not to write poems
No,
Most anyone can do that
Most anyone has done that
For school,
Maybe
To be a poet is to see a tree
And not just see a tree