I was once told that some of what I write is inspiring but I should leave out some of the negatives, some of the harsh things I’ve said and the people that have done them. I chewed on this for a bit, thought maybe it had some merit. But I’m killing myself the more I stay quiet.
Poetry
I allow my rage, my pain to become poems
So it doesn’t become actions
because actions speak louder than words
and I’d rather my loudest be kindness
but at the same time
what we resist persists so I can’t stay silent
The rage and the pain need a home
So I build them poems
You see, I’m so busy living in my love
I don’t write it down often anymore
I don’t have to give it clever comparisons
don’t need to disguise it with the perfect words
my love is my loudest
so loud I already recognize it
when almost every other part of myself is still in hiding
my rage and my pain have long been quiet
so afraid to come out because they think they’ll turn violent
but my rage and pain need to be known
the more I push them down, the more I numb, turn cold
my rage and pain need a home
so here I am, writing them this poem
you see, I’ve let trespassers pass
Continually put myself last
stopped trusting myself
refused even the most needed of help
let my no’s become yes’s
because my no’s were always seconded guessed
and I had no confidence so my no’s already came with distress
But disregard for myself
turned nothing but harming myself
pleasing everyone else
external acceptance
replaced internal rejections
stopped writing for over a decade
after intruders invaded the safety my writing created
so when I sound too negative, know that it’s my pain
words pushing out a decade of back-logged rage
when you say I’m only inspiring when I write happy poems
know that my love lives through my actions
but my pain needs a home
Much love, until next time.
Madeline May I... 