How do I go about shedding the shells
that earned me a pat on the head and a "good girl"?
I was the parent's dream,
a blue-ribbon giftee
the picture of obedience,
and oh so mature!
The 'quiet child' cachet was my only allure.
This caged bird didn't sing
of sentiments and other sinful things,
but spent decades nesting feelings.
When all alternatives felt illicit,
I reserved my torments for exclusive exhibitions,
where I held the only ticket.
Those showcased, glass displays are my poems now,
I've stuffed them with secrets I can't talk about,
but can write down.
Do the people who raised me deserve an applause?
I've got songs dancing in my head and they're the cause
of my closet of flaws.
Would I even have it in me if I was a happy child,
bold and wild?
They say art is for those who've lived in the rain;
Well, I've had my cup of it
and I guess, this is my exchange.
Copyright © 2021 by S. Y. Kalindara. All rights reserved.
I think part 1 and 2 say it all, I've got nothing left to explain.