Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Nov 2010
These days I hate being told about my strength.
I hate being handed a title branding my chest
With a word so full of magnitude.
I am discovering not that this world has taught me strength,
But that it has carved creeking creavices of weakness.
Straight to the base of my bones.
If I should ever walk past,
You are more likely to hear my
Fault lines shaking earthquakes
Through every fiber of my woven body.
Lately I have no peace of mind to find some sleep.
I"ve been scraping the avenues we paved together
Knees broken, ****** hands,
Praying to find a piece of you.
My eyelids refuse to give me darkness
With such a measured distance between us.
Knowing that you will not be there,
Playing symphonies through my ribs as I wake,
Is too much a burden for my tired heart.
Can you tell me, where is the strength in this?
I can no longer look at my mother
Without some shame swelling
A fierce sea inside of me.
Waves of my mother's failure pummel my gut.
Yet I could never tell her this.
Could never say that she
Ruined my life,
Put me through hell.
Fed my childhood to the mouth
Of the monster of addiction.
Knowing my innocence was spilled as blood,
A sacrifice to the God of her fix.
Ten years later,
I still cannot look at my mother.
Now tell me, what is the strength in this?
Loving me is a death wish.
For I will drain the life from you.
Facing such a world with these hollowed out eyes,
I cannot do so on my own.
Make sure to keep you distance,
Too close and I will bind our wrists
With rope a burning indian.
So when the knife comes down,
I will not bleed alone.
So tell me, what is the strength in this?
One year since flashbacks of things,
I never knew I remembered.
When the darkness comes I
Cannot close my eyes without
First feeling his hands,
His eyes,
His breath.
I cannot love myself,
For disgrace of the woman he sculpted out of me.
So show me where is the strength?
I hate being told abbout my strength.
I hate being handed a title
Branding my chest with burnt crooked lies
I hate being granted a word so full of magnitude.
My shoulders weren't crafted
To hold such weight.
You may never find that in me.
So if you call this strength,
Here take a look
At my book of weaknesses.
How much strength do you see in me now?
Written by
Brittany Marie
1.7k
   Sk Abdul Aziz and Jessi Ann
Please log in to view and add comments on poems