Monday, February 22, 2021

Women Reestablishing Identity

 

so clever or instinctive such watching an eye half opened—such a warrior so much a woman in need of equality. a great soldier so many wounds/awards such a glorious speech.     sore sycamores sweaty cypress oaken traumas. by will by beauty by dark betrayal. waiting for love vying/vetting for love so much ammunition. I wrestle a seagull—the ocean is blues—the rocks are jutted. so much cotton so many cottages while people become overfamiliar. but a military survivor a true gut so much attached to rights—egalitarian born running for delight while petting uneasiness. polite to some controversial with others, it never meant its full interpretation. warrior garments a sexiness in skies while not necessarily unholy. an old familiar scarf. a pair of old tennis shoes. a pair of tried denims. so unsparing with compassion, so quick to withdraw, an eye for the funny business. so unprotected such a war—often right at home. too strong to sense too weak to acknowledge too even to be accepted. such wiles in horizons as a fulfilled creature while listening to unsaid prejudices. bias about wrongness, upfront till it hurts, carrying a ship of feelings. now to water pots or property lines or re-narrating existence—as for woman such breaking cages so much repainting margins—running wildly, claiming skies, so effective it destroys;

                        a motive to succeed an extraordinary resilience while said in earnest.

                        a lamp was moved. it was set atop a trophy case. such armor just to breathe. the ideal seems flawed, turtles carry certain triumphs, as souls encompassed by adversaries. but an inrushing pride while affected by woes or effected by media. sure patient pain. big buried blurriness. sound sullen into sexes.

                        to lose usage aside something vital where a heart might be damaged. a last flight looking at a child or a dear friend—trembling, sore dejected, but happy, encouraged to grip the light.  

I’d Save The Reader Years

    The beat becomes sickness. A long crucible—a drilling ecstasy. I was losing focus, feeling forbidden, if to self, if to mirrors. So curs...