She is invisible. Yet, stands upright. Ignored, disregarded, a spirit run down.

Intelligent as she thinks, yet still forgettable in her pink slings. Not enough. Too much. “Off”.

This is the anger. This is the cry, she screams in the wind, no longer inside. The words, have vanished, the words are gone. She now is screaming without her song.

She makes herself small, a tight little ball.
Yet none are for her. She’s alone at the wall.
They move and they glide and they skip around.
The girl once a mute until silence is gone.

Her quiet, demure, reserved
kind of love, is ripe for the picking and pure as the sun.
The gentle, the sweet, or maybe the heat has made her a mist like the river’s that meet.

Her story a riddle, her spirit quite large, the people confused by the saltage she plods.  
For one maybe two have now turned their heads to look at the girl who once was well “fed”.

The moral, now told is not where you “look”. The moral is where YOU set your own hook.

Between illusion of equality and the unjust reality lies a menagerie of misinformation
Compounded by media which controls the majority of the population
Wealth and many classes divide us into multiple sides
Partial recognition what society provides
One thinks perhaps this is a VHS rewinding faster and faster
Three-ring circus orchestrated by the government playing ringmaster

a woman's entire existence
must be an oxymoron

"look the prettiest!"
don’t be vain.
"smile always!"
you're too naïve.
"stand tall!"
no, crouch down.
"we love a feisty girl!"
patience is a virtue.

"yes!"
no.
"Yes!"
n o .
"yes!!!"
NO.

we are a juxtaposition of
what we want,
and what is expected of us;
who we are,
and who we must be
to survive.

perfection is attained
and society satisfied
when a woman
turns herself
inside out
and
upside down.

after all,
don't you know -
opposites attract?

Your love came with a mirror —
always turned toward you.
Every ache I carried
became your stage,
each tear a script you rewrote
until my grief wore your name.

You call me selfish for bleeding in silence,
cold for curling into myself
when the world splits open inside my ribs.
But you never learned the language of my wounds,
only the echo of your own hunger.

I taught my voice to disappear at the sound of your temper,
hid my heart deep in the hollows of my chest
so it would not become your target.
I bowed to your shifting weather,
set my boundaries aflame
just to keep your thunder from splitting me open.

You call this love —
but real love fills, it doesn’t empty.
It holds me close without erasing me,
lets me stand beside you without fading to shadow.

I am learning the sharpness of my own outline,
the sacred violence of choosing myself.
I am learning to hold my pulse in my own palms,
to stitch my heart back together without apology.

One day, you will call me heartless.
You will say I turned cold,
that I stopped trying.

But I did not stop.
I started —
to breathe,
to rise,
to exist beyond the echo of your need.

I gathered the shards of the woman I was,
the one who bent and bled and begged to be seen.
I learned to kiss my own scars,
to trace each fracture as a map back home.

From the ashes of your endless guilting demands,
I built a quiet garden,
where my laughter echoes without fear,
where no one questions its tone or rewrites my words.
My body is no longer a battlefield,
but a soft terrain, now free to be touched with reverence, not claimed in conquest.

I found the wild in my veins again —
the witch who once danced beneath the stars,
who sang secrets to the moon with salt on her lips,
who carried entire storms inside her ribcage
and called them her magic.

I am not heartless.
I am not cold.
I am a woman remade in flame,
wearing the smoke as a crown,
singing to the morning as my own name takes root.

I am the bloom after the burning,
the breath after the breaking,
the softness that survives the blade.

Watch me —
unfurl into everything you never dared to say I couldn’t be,
radiant and ruthless in my becoming.
Unapologetic. Untamed. Unstoppable.

Poetry is still
written between the lines,
like a language without a map.
We are the only ones
who have not read it.

That poem is that smile
that flows through the
eastern mountains hidden
in the snow with the pouring rain,
without touching the rocks.

That smile is
never indecipherable,
but it carries the
rhythm of time,
the music of society,
the scent of forgotten paths
and the sweet language
of women.

The riots are still not less
Even though the
old letters
have faded
Only some songs
we don't know