Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
batya-brownPoems
Pain etched on a face Clear, simple and dark as her days, A mirror of sunshine Breaks as a smile, Breaks like a wave, Breaks like the hope That I imagine is her God. Not the one inflicted on her body, The one justifying The bruises on her skin and heart, The one in whose ghastly name She conveniently suffers. He is not the One, love, Come with us, We will carry you on our backs, You will grow wings in time, Your pain will heal. Let me show you the One I know above, I will show you that prayer is not a belt, I will teach you to sing praises Instead of agonies, I will show you faith, For I was allowed to stray In order to discover What is lost upon your captor. Oh, how I longed to speak out, To wear my immodest denim pants, To sing with my seductive female voice, To hug his little boy, Oh, how I longed to throw in his face That curse which he did make By use of my Lord's name In frightful vain, And then I understood that if I, A guest, one who could not be beat Into compliance, Do not dare to speak, Then your rescue must be up to me. For while strong and proud, poor lovely one, You will not break your chains And run away.
0
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 9:16 AM UTC
Beat
Pain etched on a face Clear, simple and dark as her days, A mirror of sunshine Breaks as a smile, Breaks like a wave, Breaks like the hope That I imagine is her God. Not the one inflicted on her body, The one justifying The bruises on her skin and heart, The one in whose ghastly name She conveniently suffers. He is not the One, love, Come with us, We will carry you on our backs, You will grow wings in time, Your pain will heal. Let me show you the One I know above, I will show you that prayer is not a belt, I will teach you to sing praises Instead of agonies, I will show you faith, For I was allowed to stray In order to discover What is lost upon your captor. Oh, how I longed to speak out, To wear my immodest denim pants, To sing with my seductive female voice, To hug his little boy, Oh, how I longed to throw in his face That curse which he did make By use of my Lord's name In frightful vain, And then I understood that if I, A guest, one who could not be beat Into compliance, Do not dare to speak, Then your rescue must be up to me. For while strong and proud, poor lovely one, You will not break your chains And run away.
batya-brown
Written by
batya-brown
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 9:16 AM UTC
Request permission to use this poem