I want to say thank you now
for every poet here
who dares to use their voice
in prose
to face their deepest inner fear

that we alone are not enough when that is just a bald faced lie
cuz we were born just perfectly the truth
and we will be more so when
eventually we die
we just forget this incoveinent truth
because
they
clipped our wings to stop our fly
embedded in deep messages
and told to us as wicked lie
and when I think about this now
it really makes me shrug & sigh
and every now and then ya know
it overwhelms
and then my spirit has enough to  cry

****.
deeper sigh....

I believe,

we hear a voice of broken generations
we hear deep within our mind
and that voice it could be one or many
and man that thing can be so ******* mean unkind
but we can unlearn deprogram change
and what you think inside we'll find?

EVERYTHING.

Ma Cherie © June 2018

First it was my throat. My lymph nodes were swollen. I knew it was a blocked throat chakra.
The words would not come out right,
The words would not come out at all.
It showed itself on your hands
And it’s the first time you ever felt Death pat you on the hands. Many things you wouldn’t understand.
Like why every night you would wake up at 3 am in a rapid temper. This isn’t a pen it’s your fist.
My hands kept turning purple, bruised. This is the first time that I’ve wrote it down, and it’s silent. Then it was my eyes
My eyelids swollen, and if this isn’t a sign then I don’t know what is. The mute is going blind.
there is a pounding headache, this isn’t a poem, this is just some angst confession about depression and how if I don’t write, I’ll die.