Thirty four is here.
My youth has an year to clear.
I was born with love.
By the most beautiful of African doves.
She had hoped for better than what you assume or see.
I must have lost my way somewhere in this human beings sea.
Life demanded a go getter.
While motherhood still demands my getting better.
Traditions once imprisoned me in a kitchen.
My saying no had the society brand me a vixen.
Shame has enveloped my face a thousand times.
Judgmental souls activated this poetry mime.
Prose remains a trusted guide out of my labyrinth.
Before revolting bitterness of a dramatic past wins.
Prayers keep angels swarming this address.
Written words put my demons on recess.
Regardless of the pain within;
Music serves as my best morphine.
I survived hell through hugs.
At a time my soul was in rags.
This soul won't die just yet.
My heart still beats.
Living dangerously as a misfit.
Who life never figured how to beat.
Thanks for coming by.
Black Queen.
Pic from pixabay.