#matriarch
I have had to fight my own matriarch for my rights.
I have had to learn on my own to fight.
I have witnessed a woman birth boys and girls all the while boys will be boys.
I have witnessed her loud will to fight for herself but her completely denial of me.
I have struggled with this syndrome of men being more deserving of forgiveness.
They don’t know any better, they are just dumb, we have to teach them.
No ma’am. I didn’t birth them. I didn’t choose to bring them into this world and refuse to teach them right.
I didn’t choose to pass the blame as they grew into adulthood and spewed hatred of you and me and all those like us.
I sat quietly as you punished me far more severely than them.
I sat desperate for the right attention while you shamed me and hated me.
I walked through and protected you while you refused to protect me.
I live with conflict inside my chest.
Do you love me or do you hate me?
I shrank myself because of you.
My matriarch tore me down.
She confused me.
She bound my hands and gagged my mouth.
She is strong and loud, courageous and brave.
She gave me the fire I have inside but she tried to burn me with it first.
She loves me but she loves them more than me.
She didn’t fight for me the way she did for them.
She took up her place as woman but her hand reaches out to man.
Apr 20
Apr 20, 2026 at 4:16 PM UTC
Too hot, too cold
Too young, too old
Too fat, too thin
A wary din
Mar 26
Mar 26, 2026 at 4:27 PM UTC
A lamentation carved in ancestral ash and silken wrath
I was born beneath a roof of borrowed stars, where silence was stitched into my cradlecloth, and every withheld scream became a psalm
for the Sentinel of Bloodline me.
They speak in tongues dipped in honeyed venom, those kin who wear concern like ceremonial garlands, but their rituals reek of rot their blessings, barbed.
The Bearer of Burdens my progenitor
spent his prime erecting altars for their comfort, his sweat sanctified their feasts, his spine bent into bridges they now demand
be paved with gold and guilt.
Two daughters, they hiss, as if our existence were a ledger of loss, as if his labor must be transmuted
into inheritance for those who never wept for him.
And the Matriarch of Grace my origin flame
they veil her with shame, commenting on her visage, demanding she drape herself in submission
as if dignity were theirs to dictate.
Yet she speaks to them still, with a grace that defies gravity, while I her blood’s echo
burn in silence, my fury folded into polite nods
and counterfeit smiles.
I want to unsheath my voice, etch boundaries into their bones, teach them the sacred geometry of respect.
How dare they trespass
into the sanctum of our suffering?
But I swallow my wrath for the Matriarch’s peace, for the Bearer’s dignity, for the society that weighs silence
as virtue.
Still, silence is a slow crucifixion.
So I write.
I ritualize my rage into verse, my grief into glyphs, my defiance into legacy.
Let this poem be a blade wrapped in velvet, a dirge for the betrayed, a sanctuary for Sentinels
who guard their lineage like sacred flame.
Oct 1, 2025
Oct 1, 2025 at 9:32 AM UTC
Exertion has created a map at the back of her hands.
Just like abrasion, when water gently shapes rocks.
She has untied knot after knot.
Her hands carrying eternities of wisdom.
Jul 30, 2025
Jul 30, 2025 at 5:37 AM UTC
I too contemplate scripture
some delve deep
the humble Love
mostly Mothers
any form of the written
as in hope their default app
ironicallylly erroneous
yet overwhelmingly applied.
Feb 20, 2021
Feb 20, 2021 at 4:28 AM UTC
Though the rooms of her heart might be shattered
Her strong will and majestic grace remains resolute
She bore the remnants of ochre like tattoos on the walls of her body
As she cradled humanity's first born with promise
Her eyes bore the ravages of battles lost
Yet her reserves will lead us into the future as a blueprint from the beginning
And she will be called the matriarch angel of the universe
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 2:41 PM UTC
Mother's Milk,
-feel no Whistles or Bells?
A river my poor state of mind,
feelings' worded
mediocre,
Meiotic
but I am home.
I wish to feel a bit more?
To expiate this Trollop!
Gibbeted?
-or boiled
I stew...
And finally,
yes finally...
...shall I **** the little Gnome?
*I SHALL **** THE LITTLE GNOME.*
Mendacious
not
Alone.
Feb 18, 2018
Feb 18, 2018 at 4:02 AM UTC
Sustenance for friends and clients;
state your case – come one, come all.
The matron arms of Social Service
will not let you fall.
Food stamps make our nation stronger,
licked, then stuck on the public roll.
Social programs last much longer
adding recipients on the dole…
Like the Ephesian Diana
many are my benefits!
Mine the matriarchal manna;
latch and suckle at my teats.
Yours the client’s right to nurture.
Mother will supply your need;
Child, you must not fear the future –
feed, my baby, feed.
Call me nanny, call me Lord
just make sure you’re calling on me.
Mine are the gifts you can afford
they’re taxpayer-funded, worry-free!
Once you are latched I’ll keep it flowing
like an intravenous habit.
Keep that ****** situated
where your will can never grab it
Let it never cross your mind
that there’s an end to all lactation.
Cloward-Piven have refined
this titillation.
Love me. Need me. I’m the State.
Your well-being is my affair.
With your consent I’ll dominate,
because I care.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 9:07 PM UTC
gone so long
fine memories line
your beauty face adored
paltry company by now
the made doll with her tight red smile
no secrets will divulge
pretty blue eyes held so wide
by violent stitches black
no blinking now and no excuse
the truth is all revealed
as the lie was all reviled
but once it was a simple sharing
blood along the line
mother strength to daughter
from she to me to mine
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 9:05 PM UTC