Category: Writers Block
The format of this poem was originally very choppy, with two- and three-word lines, and I've only just changed it. I cannot believe I'm posting this, but here it is. And by the way, nothing I write is titled.
I want to cut off my curls
and throw away the tubes and bottles and jars I use
to disguise my face when I go out at night,
because I want peace when I breathe.
I don't want hands forging new pathways in my skin
where no pathways should ever go,
and I don't want eyes uncovering secrets
that were never meant to be dirty.
I don't want to fall to my knees every night
praying for salvation from a god I'm not even sure exists.
I know what it's like to feel terror just walking out the front door,
and to wonder if I'll still be the same once I turn the next corner.
I know what it's like to be wary of the opposite sex
because no matter what they say,
there's always that voice in the back of the mind that says
their hands can turn to steel and their words to fire at any moment.
I know what it's like to hate being small and delicate and fragile,
and to scoff at the girls who wish for that body,
because with it comes fear that you can be broken with just a flick of the wrist.
I've felt the hatred of this world increased tenfold,
and I know that a percent of that hatred is for me,
and her, and her, and every other girl who ever
dared to think she was better than his grip on her neck,
or on her breasts, or on any inch of tender flesh he felt he had a right to claim.
Every girl who's ever considered herself more than
a piece of land to be worked or a battle to be conquered
knows just how much control is worth,
and all they can do is whisper every childhood prayer they ever learned
and leav their legacy in the ocean when it's ripped away.
All they can do is hobble when their wings are clipped,
and I want to fight, to bleed, to scream, to rip and claw
at the flesh of increasing hatred
until there are craters that will never be repaired.
But all I can do is scatter ashes in the ocean and flowers on the graves
and hope that I'll still be me tomorrow.
There's no rest for the weary.
Chelsea, that's a great poem, I really like it.
I especially liked the end. Maybe when everything stops appearing to gray and dull to me, I'll create something worth writing...
but this poem, it was really good. I like your work, and I want to see more.
I usually sort of criticize the dark poetry on here, but this evokes a sadness in me. I sure hope I never caused anyone to feel that way.
Keep writing, this is good.
Thanks for posting it.
Bob
Oh yes, by the way, the new screen name threw me. <grin>.
Bob
Excellent work I love it thank you it's very moving
I love this poem, loved the way you described things, really felt the atmosphere.
Thanks for sharing, and keep posting, *smile*.
wow...wow! It takes me back to places I don't want to be. Very well written.
Wow. Well written indeed, and it makes me sad too. I can really identify with it. Thanks Chelsea. *hugs*
Wow...thanks, people! I appreciate all the comments...very much.