I want to write a poem to my raging inner teen
But she doesn't like me
I have seen the hate she holds in her eyes
For my choosing to sacrifice
Everything she held dear
To survive.
Her bleeding hands reach for my neck
When I try to go to sleep
Like I willingly traded everything she knew
For the echoes that made her believe
She doesn't deserve
To thrive.
I want to write a poem to my inner child
But she will ask why I stood aside
While time stole
The magic of her healing smile
Or the infinite things that colored her mind
Before I lost mine.
To be clear,
I still can't account for her blinding light
No matter how I stare into the darkness
That consumed everything in me
And left her drowning
Together with my curiosity.
I want to write a poem to my evolved self
But she doesn't have a shred of trust
Hers is to change masks
To fit in a society full of asks
Yet none make her feel
Better or loved.
Quick to admit when overwhelmed
And the last to reach out
For a helping hand
I have seen shame clothe her more than hope
As she fights to love herself
Despite the urge not to.
I had come to the end of the road with prose and poetry. I had drifted from the what centers in words and phrases. I have felt defiance growing toward my ability to release whatever tries to take hold of my spirit through penmanship or any other positive way of expression.
I am now trying to tap back into the mystery of being gifted with a different way of painting my pain as I have always been doing. To heal. To soothe. To reignite my constantly dying rays. To embody a larger part of myself.
...here is to reimagining my affair with words!
wambuku w.
