when i share a poem it is me baring something that i normally keep bottled up. it is my vulnerability.
i did not write poems my whole life.
i did not receive accolades for creativity when i was growing.
i did not put pen to paper, or fingers to keystrokes as a teen or even as a young adult.
for me, writing is new. it is young. it is a cherubic faced baby suckling on my tit looking for nourishment and love.
when i can sit in the quiet of my apartment without chores, guilt, worry, or obligations, and...
when that time comes and also i am blessed with the innermost woman speaking from the depths of my heart
she longs to be heard.
she longs to be understood and known.
she tires of her quiet solitude in my heart.
and when she is greeted with silence
the silences is interpreted as rejection.
She is too deep.
She is too needy.
She is too, too, too... you name it.
Just too much.
So she fears she will be buried again,
rejected
laughed at
rolled eyes
dismissed
hated
.
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