Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
attemptatbeingartsyPoems
When the thieves broke in, They broke my mother’s heart, They broke my naiveté, They broke my maternal lineage, By making her closet bare, She stood barely recognizing it, Stared at her safe, Her Bulletproof Fireproof     Apocalypse proof Safe Code c r a c k e d, Deadbolt door eerily open. “It’s just jewelry,” she muttered,         [Passed down from one generation to the next,         Dating back to an invaded India,         Surviving six hundred soldiers,         Smuggled within folds of saris through seas,         Stories etched in souvenir gold]. “At least we’re all safe,” she stated with conviction. [Yet I couldn’t help but feel,         A physical furthering,         From my immigrant ancestors,         Who passed along secrets with every pendant,         Who whispered hopes in every ornate hairpin,         Who stored their aspirations in every accumulation:         Real riches knit with poetic prospers from the past]. How funny To imagine the thieves Pricing a priceless object -- Ironically making it worthless Because the burglary left behind The heritage.
0
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 12:50 AM UTC
Still Safe
When the thieves broke in, They broke my mother’s heart, They broke my naiveté, They broke my maternal lineage, By making her closet bare, She stood barely recognizing it, Stared at her safe, Her Bulletproof Fireproof     Apocalypse proof Safe Code c r a c k e d, Deadbolt door eerily open. “It’s just jewelry,” she muttered,         [Passed down from one generation to the next,         Dating back to an invaded India,         Surviving six hundred soldiers,         Smuggled within folds of saris through seas,         Stories etched in souvenir gold]. “At least we’re all safe,” she stated with conviction. [Yet I couldn’t help but feel,         A physical furthering,         From my immigrant ancestors,         Who passed along secrets with every pendant,         Who whispered hopes in every ornate hairpin,         Who stored their aspirations in every accumulation:         Real riches knit with poetic prospers from the past]. How funny To imagine the thieves Pricing a priceless object -- Ironically making it worthless Because the burglary left behind The heritage.
There are some things that people can’t steal from you like where you’ve come from and what you’ve learned.
Written by
attemptatbeingartsy
American
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 12:50 AM UTC
Request permission to use this poem