wine, in perfect measure,
is a bridge from tortured mind
to blank page.
Too little and the words
get stuck in my fingers.
Flowing too freely,
and I am heavy,
lost to the power of thought.
wine, my translator divine,
I am set free
to speak my truth and fall back,
her tongue is too big
for a pretty little mouth like that
They wanted to cut it
as if it will give me more freedom
Change my mind
Liberate my sleep
Then they said
tape your mouth shut
Rip it from your lips then
remember that sting every morning when you wake
Build up that grainy residue
So that no amount of scrubbing away will change anything
That raspy, hazy din of voice–
It’s not mine anymore when you let it invade your comfort
Whose grating is it then
when I bend and it works
then it just doesn’t?
I’ll rest in my autumn warmth
wait for the drowning of winter
I will warn you of Spring
The pen casts a spell
to each of our little pains
Charged with our ache,
distills into peaceful stillness,
a final and blissful end
(Words indeed do save)
Humans saving humans,
this is true heaven, truly being blessed
it is leaving our words unspoken
that has our throats feeling choked,
it is at this point in time
when setting your words free
may be the only means
to setting yourself
he who reaches into
the core of a heart
abcdefghijklm(full of words)abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz
opqrsabcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyztuvwxyzabcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyzabc(too scrambled to say) abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz
abcdefghijklmnopqrstuv(in a misguided)abcdefghijklmn
to decipher what this meant to you anyway.
Your words rival the rain that washes the dust of yesterday off the streets,
They pull flocks of birds towards your speech,
And like maps of the largest cities
I dwell on them for days hoping to uncover every corner,
Even the petals of blooming flowers
Fly away prematurely to follow the words that rest on your tongue,
Because when you speak you pierce the atmosphere
With paper planes folded by your wisdom.
Your words are pungent, like mosaics of foreign colour,
They rest upon the palette of a dreamy painter,
Wistful in colour, even when you haven’t spoken at all.
The belt which holds your pants up,
The same belt holds my head high.
The game which you play at night,
The same game I deny.
The heels which I wear,
from them beware.
The make-up in my bag,
Is yet another instrument hiding my despair.
The smiles with which you greet me,
One day I will turn the tables Around.
Maybe today i ain't doing it,
But it doesn't mean that I wouldn't do it ever.
The day will come nd it will come soon.
Maybe you do not acknowledge me today,
But remember my day will come too.
It isn't only about what you did to me,
But what you did to hundreds out there.
Maybe it isn't daily that we speak up,
But the day we do can put behind the bars thousands of you.
(This poem is a message from a **** survivor to her rapists)
be only referred to
in the terms
of the humane apparatus of speech?
Isn’t it not only verbal?
Is it also feelings,
murmur of understatements fleeting,
trees and leaves
in a sage’s patience swaying,
Isn’t silence speaking too?
Wondering upon our beloved way of contact among us Poets
THE WORDS YOU CANNOT SAY
The words you cannot say
Could possibly change the a day
Save a life
Change ones view --
-- Away from that of which they thought they knew
The words you cannot say ..
The wounds, you caused ,
Will not go away...
You try but---
cannot turn away....
For you're the cause of so much hardship and dismay----
---This may be the only way
To say that witch you cannot say---
----- They, may be the words you needed
to overcome the memories that can't be deleted...
The feelings will be never depleted
Unless you speak it ....
The words I cannot say
Haunt me til this day...
Wishing you could speak up. Or wanting to make a situation better but fearing that you will have the opposite effect