Speak

All she wanted was to keep trying, but that air caught in lungs,

tongue caught in mouth, words that sought revenge, stopped in throat

and refused to be aroused.

 

 

Vocal chords contracted, spontaneous expression cut short,

she felt inapt, that what she had spoken, the need to retract.

Like a good slap to the face, bruised and battered, worn down,

repressed, she screams and can not be heard, in her anger, she feels

absurd.

 

 

The thick hand of repression, grabs hold her throat.

Squeezes tight, no air or noise escapes,

there is nothing but the squeak of fright.

 

 

To speak her plight, she wondered how.

With tight right handed glove choking.

She ain’t never been outspoken.

But she was never one to be broken.

 

 

Not one to make no compromise from a position of weakness, her

integrity bore this witness.

 

 

Sensitive was she to all of humanity,

but desensitised so, for personal struggles of woe.

 

 

Her weakness was her lack of courage,

her  lack of nourishing self,

her misunderstanding of her very souls wealth.

 

 

She yearned to be stealth. To hold her own.

That wise womanly power, born in bellies of witches of past generations,

that mastered their skill.

 

 

But this fear, a consistent reminder,

a physical block,

caused by a summation of nervous shock.

 

 

Vicariously, through the many lives that were lost,

through the knocks and kicks of children loved,

watching injustices and humanity shoved a side.

 

 

And painted over with white wash,

by that right handed glove.

 

 

She felt lost in a world where trauma and violation ruled.

Where to ensure your not fooled,

you had to be schooled in the knows of aggression.

Where your confession, left you needing to regress.

Introversion was no consession.

And where people had no time for any one but themselves.

 

 

But through processing this hurt, she became learnt…

 

 

Healing comes from many places,

and most times, you have to chase it.

It’s wearing your heart on your sleeve in courage,

watching it bleed, red and bold.

 

 

Its finding comfort in vulnerability,

comfort in the power of truths.

 

 

Opening up your chest, one rib at a time,

feeling each release crack up your spine.

 

 

It’s spitting out your truth, even through clenched teeth and a choking throat.

It’s not being fearful of your own staunch self.

 

 

And with words spoken from the firey belly of truth, you can not lose.

For they are your words which you choose.

 

 

Cutting away at societies ties of lies,

you unleash the love once confined,

and let it spread from soft lips, to willing ears,

let your own love wipe away the tears.

 

 

Open eyes, head held high, and speak.

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About dustforthedancers

Poet, creative, cultural and community seeder, feeder, maybe one day I'll be a leader. Of my own path at least...
Aside | This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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