I always wondered,
Why in my culture, we wore a red
And not a white
Then I remembered she is a woman
Her blood is rinsed with sacrifice
And on the day of matrimonial happiness
She shall bleed out
Maybe it’s a cry for change,
Or maybe it’s compromise in its most crimson reflection
But when her hands are stained with henna
And her arms laced in embroidered elegance
Does her blood begin to change?
And if it doesn’t, will she be thrown away
Like the burden on her fathers head?
That chokes him from the day she was born to the day she is wed
Is that why her mother once wore the colour red?
I think to myself,
a lamb bleeds too when it’s cut for it’s meat,
And then it’s coat is no longer light
Is that why she wears red and not white?

Someone asked if I was okay,
but all I could muster was 'I'm fine'.
But the way they looked into my eyes
I know they could see that 'I'm fine' was all lies.

I quickly turned away, for them not to see my tears
and tried my best to place a smile across my weary face.
I tried with all my might to muster 'I'll get through this,
maybe not tonight, it's just taking me a little while'.

I know they saw that I was hurting,
and I knew the pain was becoming too much to take.
But this burden is mine to keep,
it is mine to bare alone.

They reached out to hold me closer,
as they placed their hand on mine.
They said they were there to help me in anyway they can,
but I have heard those lines to many times before.

I’m fine during the daytime;
The problems come at night.
My thoughts come out to haunt me
Sometimes they make me cry in fright.

I lie awake for hours
My face is wet with tears.
Sleep seems so far away,
Though my nightmares seem so near.

I didn’t sign up for this;
Crying myself to sleep.
Who could’ve known that now it is
A burden to be able to think?

1/22/2020

A blank page. Is beautiful,
Like an empty cardboard box.
A blank page is pitiful,
Like a bike without shocks.
A blank page is powerful,
Like he who controls the clocks.

Words. Are dangerous,
Like a career in bomb diffusion.
Words are ponderous,
Like time spent in seclusion.
Words are useless,
Like having skills in indecision.

Expressions. Are misguiding,
Like incorrect road signs.
Expressions are inviting,
Like getting off the sidelines.
Expressions are exposing,
Like craters left by mines.

Fears. Will debilitate,
Like brakes locked on an icy road.
Fears will dictate,
Like poor learning of law code.
Fears will fabricate,
Like a hasty corduroy road.

How can the potential of a chart,
The potency of what we hear,
The mystery of an open heart,
Not keep one from outrunning Fear?
You just don’t know where to start.
Oh, when will everything become clear?

Pain. Is difficult,
Like a test of endurance.
Pain is heartfelt,
Like an understanding glance.
Pain is insult,
Like taunts in arrogance.

Doubt. Is dividing,
Like a denominator.
Doubt is saving,
Like a backup generator.
Doubt is disregarding,
Like a prideful visitor.

Acceptance. Is costly,
Like a gambling addiction.
Acceptance is ghostly,
Like it’s writing fiction.
Acceptance is necessary,
Like a correct prediction.

Love. Will change your ways,
Like moving across the planet.
Love will catch your gaze,
Like seeing a leaky faucet.
Love will not cease to amaze,
Like that: nothing but net.

How can feeling sufferance,
The weakness of doubt,
And the need for acceptance,
Continue to keep Love locked out?
Oh, how low will I cling to reluctance?
I just don’t know where to start.

1/2/20

Waiting for this is like watching someone,
Who’s struggling to lift heavy objects.
Knowing there’s work to be done.
But I’m defiant, as when a mob objects.

I see exactly what I dislike in me,
I guess, maybe I could toss it out.
Motivation comes so slowly,
But small steps are how you start.

So I’ll show you who I am,
But I’ll keep the darkest inside.
I’ll hold it back like the Hoover Dam.
Oh, how long can I go on looking dignified?

I’m in the middle of a drought,
In denial, I hold onto every drop.
Yet I haven’t figured it out,
That emotions aren’t meant to stop.

So I’ll give myself a chance,
I’ll give kindness a try.
I’ll surrender like France,
I’ll give into love and comply.

What is my own goodness?
But like a pile of wet leaves,
Or worshipping a false goddess,
Fruitless, like unsuccessful thieves.

Who am I? Who do I want to be?
I know who I was; I’m glad it’s in the past.
Yet these pains, I’ve gotten nowhere, you see?
Just when I thought I’d see the end at last.

When will I stop talking,
And move into danger’s range?
When will I stop writing,
And begin this wretched change?