Sep 2021
I wonder who I would be if I had never been told to stop singing so loudly.
Melodies and lyrics that used to come from my heart filling my chest until they fell from my mouth dancing around my tongue.
Belted out loudly because I wanted the earth to know that I could hear her songs and wanted to offer my voice so everyone else could hear too.
What if it had been understood that I was coping with the separation from my mother and loss of my father?
Would I speak more freely now?
Would my throat open instead of shut down and deny that I ever knew how to sing?
Would my hum be a roar?
Who would I be if I had been encouraged to continue to paint?
Continually inspired to find expression in color and shape.
Reminded that the mysterious blots always created some type of magnificence.
How much more free would my soul be if the color spectrum had not been drained from my childhood world?
Placed with a family that didn't believe in nature, or color, or freedom.
Forced into black and white with not even gray.
Would I still be dripping and swiping across a blank canvas and know how to pull colors from emptiness?
Would I be unafraid?
How much stronger would I be if I hadn't been told to be quiet when my insides were screaming that something was wrong?
Would my boundaries be stronger?
Would my voice be louder?
How much space would I be comfortable taking up if I hadn't been taught to cower?
How much more open would my heart and comfort be if motherhood had not been torn away?
If I had never been told I wasn't enough?
Or I was too young?
What if motherhood had not been taken from my arms while milk dripped from my ******* and my heart was all I was allowed to send with him?
No one asks about the birth mom...they just move on because she's a vessel for someone else's happiness.
What if I had been supported?
Would it be easier to feel close to
Or good enough for my children now?
Would I feel unafraid of being accepted by them?
Would I tear myself apart less?
Would I not worry they'd be better off with my partner if something happened to me? Or to us?
No one ever asks about that story.
Not even when they see their own children and understand that kind of love.
They never see how fragile I was left.
How heartbroken.
No one has ever been careful around me.
What if my strength, independence, spirit, voice, or intelligence, had been respected?
What if I had been celebrated and pushed into that growth?
What if I hadn't been held down or been too much?
What if my fire had been tended?
Who would I be if I hadn't been the only one to hold onto me?
Melodies and lyrics that used to come from my heart filling my chest until they fell from my mouth dancing around my tongue.
Belted out loudly because I wanted the earth to know that I could hear her songs and wanted to offer my voice so everyone else could hear too.
What if it had been understood that I was coping with the separation from my mother and loss of my father?
Would I speak more freely now?
Would my throat open instead of shut down and deny that I ever knew how to sing?
Would my hum be a roar?
Who would I be if I had been encouraged to continue to paint?
Continually inspired to find expression in color and shape.
Reminded that the mysterious blots always created some type of magnificence.
How much more free would my soul be if the color spectrum had not been drained from my childhood world?
Placed with a family that didn't believe in nature, or color, or freedom.
Forced into black and white with not even gray.
Would I still be dripping and swiping across a blank canvas and know how to pull colors from emptiness?
Would I be unafraid?
How much stronger would I be if I hadn't been told to be quiet when my insides were screaming that something was wrong?
Would my boundaries be stronger?
Would my voice be louder?
How much space would I be comfortable taking up if I hadn't been taught to cower?
How much more open would my heart and comfort be if motherhood had not been torn away?
If I had never been told I wasn't enough?
Or I was too young?
What if motherhood had not been taken from my arms while milk dripped from my ******* and my heart was all I was allowed to send with him?
No one asks about the birth mom...they just move on because she's a vessel for someone else's happiness.
What if I had been supported?
Would it be easier to feel close to
Or good enough for my children now?
Would I feel unafraid of being accepted by them?
Would I tear myself apart less?
Would I not worry they'd be better off with my partner if something happened to me? Or to us?
No one ever asks about that story.
Not even when they see their own children and understand that kind of love.
They never see how fragile I was left.
How heartbroken.
No one has ever been careful around me.
What if my strength, independence, spirit, voice, or intelligence, had been respected?
What if I had been celebrated and pushed into that growth?
What if I hadn't been held down or been too much?
What if my fire had been tended?
Who would I be if I hadn't been the only one to hold onto me?
Feeling the memories of some childhood and younger life experiences tonight. I feel like I could perhaps take a few of these subjects and build onto them in their own separate poems. I hope if anyone relates to this that they feel seen. I think a lot of us feel alone in our sadness and we experience a world that is not gentle to our pain. That is part of what makes us the writers we are. We give company and understanding to others that are hurting. We paint with words and make life feel beautiful. Maybe one day I'll be brave enough to write poetry that isn't anonymous...
