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I hear nothing but waves, and the air cascading around me with flecks of salt,
But i see infinite stretches of vulnerablity, it's as if i want to cradle this liquid into a glass and rock it to sleep as the waves and water do to me.
It is already the beginning of the ash mixing with the salt,
And the coral as white as the rarest of albino,
The layers of life are being heated to an extra degree,
The sun which gives us prosperity and hope beams in an angry, mocking setiment as if a child has been abused.
Which it has.
And the child protection workers are nowhere to be found.

As a family we have to admit our mistakes,
We have to strive to be better,
We need procedure, supports to at least be good enough,
We need to stop beating, abusing, and bruising.
Because our child will withdraw, our child will retaliate, and eventually fight back or destroy itself in the process.
And we will go along with it.
Nothing about us without us,
Always about us, you're without us.
Including the moments in history, that deserve our religious screams, our outrage and defiance,
The human rights that slip your systemic mind from time to time, because it comes with a billboard that has a painted letter of a capital D.
We own the crippled and crumpled pages,
Your oppression is our spark of history,
Flattering the pages and creating a novel,
a permenant marker of our precence.
Will you pick it up and understand?
We made our place in the palm of your hand,
This is about us, and without us you wont stand.
Today has risen,
A new era and decision,
What will fate give me?
Starting poetry again,
Was once a comfort and friend,
Now flames burn from ashes.
Paper transforms into an electric pulse,
From a hand extended outright and grasping for connection.

Together once more,
Was a friendship, loving, a journey through all that was life,
Not making narrative sense.
Now we rise as equal companions ready to slice letters with our thumbprints,
And tear at the nature of paper.
Shaylie Pryer Aug 2019
So many can never find the words, the feelings,
because if they speak, what they know
It becomes a solidified highlight reel,
and not just a spiel, a tale told in the confines of safety to a person with a ticket that transforms them into the audience.

They devour the reel of desperation and despair,
The hurt child deep inside that starts through the mind, and leaks through the pours of your adult body, it paralyses you with fear, ruins your relationships, destroys the peaceful nights and waking moments.

It slaps you with a ghost hand and phantom pain, reaching from the past to remind you in the present that it still lingers,
they are still there  and they always will be, that it is their job to inflict pain.

Just one moment, one semblance of safety, is when the person with the ticket shows up to your screening, reaches for that ghost hand, and instead of twisting and pushing it away like you always beg, plead and scream to do
they grab the hand, hold it and say:

"This trauma is real, not a show, not a highlight reel, I will guide your scenes, your desperate cries and pleas, and I will help your child heal"
Shaylie Pryer Sep 2018
When we are born we are born to be made,
Shaped like clay from the confines of the universes hands.
Like art.
And like art we are critiqued,
And like art we become,
Until our colours, thoughts, behaviours form,
And we are human,
We are all in one piece,

And these people stand and these people stand and give their verdict,
And these people stand and extend an invitation to us, an invitation that tells us to now be a "Starry night" instead of a Picasso painting,  although they don't know even Starry night had their Picasso days.

And these people stand as they extend their arm, capturing the essence of our being on the street, when sometimes our clay is soft, or when the paint bleeds from us.

But our arms and wrists  can bleed,
But our minds are told it cannot,
With the exception of one day to ask: "Are you okay?"

But by then I'm already in the kiln, and already dried to the bone,
Because I am an artist,
And i will shape myself again.
Shaylie Pryer Sep 2018
I awoke.

I awoke hands claspsing around me, grasping as if all they had was me to hold on to, and maybe they did.

Because this man was not so innocent,
This man pushed the people he loved away, by treating them like a punching bag,
and with each blow became more of a reason to escape, he tried to escape his emotions, they tried to escape him.

So he was alone,

And that loneliness I forever have felt,
As I watched the wizard of Oz as a child and felt like there never will be a place like home, so I understood that loneliness.

He invited me to not be so lonely with him, and I tried not to be so afraid

I went to sleep, I stared at the cupboards afraid of the figure at the end of my bed,
I went to sleep thinking that I wish my mother was here
While his hands trailed down the road contours of the body, not yet developed.

I cried uncertain if this was okay because only parents can touch their children, but why did it feel so wrong, when his hands slipped underneath my underwear, I cried and slipped into a sleep.

I awoke,
To gaining his innocence, because he stole mine.
First poem written in awhile
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