To the Mothers
She is the Mother,
Nursing hope while learning to descend the rope
Fashioned as an apron
Strings tied cruelly to her wings.
She yearns to fly, yet must not fly too high,
Lest she abandons burdens meant for her.
How shall she dance, when she craves to enjoy some groove?
Or seek the solace of the rooftops cove?
“Hang here, child,” Mama said, “Your cross awaits,
To lift your sealed fates.
Across this room, is your hope
She stood in silence freaking at the slope
Bearing witness to miscarried dreams
she isn’t lazy, the genius within screams
Juggling education, frustration and pain,
Medications, destinations, all at once
Her life may be extinguished
In an attempt to nurture vanquished
Dreams at the expense of hers being banished
From the land where she lavished her tender love
Revere her nature to multiply seeds
She goes to breed life whenever it longs for self
The reason your shelf is never empty
She pours out hers fill up for Eddie
These days girls are famed with shame
Let not “gold digger” be the sum of her name.
Tame every nstinct that is lame
Frame a thoughts in the gallery of your hearts
To revere her abilities and her penchant for giving birth to possibilities
A sorry state
Is when your dazed eyes hungover,
as the starless dusk hover,
around the cold black pall,
Your footprints are apparent on the wall.
Slamming the skull,
against the walls of null.
The truth was always hidden
in lies that you fixed like an addiction.
All attempts to educate,
is pursued with an unjust cascade,
that washes your dreams down the drain,
Now beauty has thawed with the rain,
Only the starless dark floats,
in the eyes of the torrent.
A nasty facade, you have chosen.
What a sorry state!
Beloved Travelers
Beloved travelers of this road,
If I step upon your path now and then,
or tug at the threads of your patience,
forgive me in advance. I am but a curious creature,
learning how to leap between the ropes of this life.
At times, I may be as a fly,
seeking rest on your nose when you wish for peace,
or like a stray shepherd’s dog,
lost and wandering with only the hunger of survival in its bones.
I am a poet in a land where my soul feels foreign,
where the fields are harsh,
and envy whispers in the ears of muses.
If I tie my soul’s apron to yours, do not worry.
I seek not to steal from your life,
but to offer a gentle scratch where it itches,
to lift the burdens that cling to your back like fleas.
Call me a leech, if you will,
but know that I feed on what you shed,
leaving you lighter, healthier.
Together, let us not shatter what is fragile.
For we are passengers in a vessel of glass,
and all I ask is to be remembered as one who hoped,
stubbornly, that we might share this journey
with open hands and unbroken hearts.
