Vote for my post on Mom Blog Network

February 11, 1963

You and I, amazing the similarities.
The desire to fit like the rest in a jigsaw,
but with jagged edges, we refuse to stay put.

The want of our fathers, long gone before they loved;
swaddled by our mothers, in tight cases entrapped.

Into verse delving; words fit neatly on a page.
Every dark thought, exposed, held upright with book ends;
the empty feelings, momentarily silenced.

Having used our words to reach out to faceless men,
loving them because of our own inequities,
but having no need to meet them, see, be with them.

Our second child, lost before being held.
You in hospital, I under counselor’s watch;
eyes roving, family whispering, “Is she mad?”
Oh, if they knew, if they had any idea,
locked away, locked away, we’d never see the light.

What makes us poets? A dark worm eating our souls.
Did they nearly save you, your children, as mine did?
Did he stifle you, squander your gift with semen?

Yes, you were powerful, but some dark splotch owned you.
It owns me, is it possible to cut that stitch?
Muse, I’ll house him for you; perhaps he’ll die with me.
I am I. You are You. We are We. Aren’t we?

(I had a headache yesterday, so that's why I didn't post. This is one I wrote from a prompt, which was to write a poem about another poet, using one of their lines.)

Join me @ Swag Bucks!

Search & Win