I have been myself, from
the outside looking in. The soul
a darker shade, where no blossoms
dare to bloom.
An experience of postpartum with poetry.
I yearn for ink to snuggle close, staining my arms
from the elbow down to my calloused palms.
Cradle close, soft cries-
it feeds from the paper's ******
tender flesh that leaks words.
This child hungrier than I.
But the spirit is famished for
more than my body and mind can give.
These blossoms, dreary in gray
monochrome. I pour my heart out
to this infant haiku, that must grow more.
Though, nothing worth
saying appears.
Jun 27, 2019
Jun 27, 2019 at 8:38 PM UTC
I have been myself, from
the outside looking in. The soul
a darker shade, where no blossoms
dare to bloom.
An experience of postpartum with poetry.
I yearn for ink to snuggle close, staining my arms
from the elbow down to my calloused palms.
Cradle close, soft cries-
it feeds from the paper's ******
tender flesh that leaks words.
This child hungrier than I.
But the spirit is famished for
more than my body and mind can give.
These blossoms, dreary in gray
monochrome. I pour my heart out
to this infant haiku, that must grow more.
Though, nothing worth
saying appears.
I have a bad relationship with words, similar to my mother and I's.
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