It – Those things we don’t talk about.

It sidles behind a metaphor.
There it goes –
twitching beneath that symbol
cowering under that image.
Only an angry eye
blinks from the darkness.
I drag it out and pin it down
with the sharp edge
of my ball point pen.

I will never be the person I could be because
my mouth is stuffed with fear.
I blame my family, for who I am.
I am angry with them.
I do not believe in the religion I was born into.
I do not see myself as a woman.
I am denied certain rights because I am a girl.

It shrinks,
in the fresh air
and under the bright lights.
It slinks away –
naked and ashamed,
leaving only a trail of angry
words on an empty page.

Advertisements

2 thoughts on “It – Those things we don’t talk about.

  1. What a great metaphor for writing. It does feel like we are impaling butterflies on pins some days.

    Thanks for your poem.

    Chittz: Hey, yes, that was precisely the image I had in mind. Thanks a lot for taking the time to read and appreciate.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s