A poetic journal, free writing (and rhyming.. or not)
What it feels like to be a Woman
Sand, but I slip through
Cracks in the marble
Like the ink that bled out..
through my wounds
Art changes
and re-shapes you
But, not like being chiselled
into molds of beauty
Expectation, assessed, numbered
new criteria taken down..
The observer frowns
A world that dared
and didn’t update you
You opened your mouth
Words came out
The sculptor wonders
if he spoke too soon
Thin fibres encased in the
clay (of doom)
Long limbs were there
to be draped
for the one chosen, round -
Way too much, way way too soon
Age-old, rounder of the personality
Rounder of the day
Awakening in breaking hairs
that rip the pieces apart
And we’re supposed to stay
Only a woman could be unique
and delicate and beautiful
Strong -
Perfect fibres, on legs
of reckless abandon
Refusing to be defined
in any, particular, way
Misshapen by them
in false patterns of, don’t belong
New types of clay sculptures
of bright colours
of brain maps
of wonder
Voices of yesterday - and now
Stretching like trees
Fingers widened in
promise - and wonder
that are
meant to STAY
Emptied in Autumn
like the branches
Rumbling, biding time
Art opens the rage
and lets it out
It keeps rolling - Time after time
You turn the page
What art does,
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