I still weep for my Mother
though she is not around.
Though she never wept...
made the full sound of her crying.
She cried covering her mouth
or she cried alone.
A child must always make her parents proud.
A child must always keep their feelings
to themselves...
not say them aloud.
And so she was crippled.
But you could not see the wound.
But I could feel it, her wound, inside myself,
I nearly carried it in my womb.
My Father was so rage-filled you
had to get out of his way.
He was a tempest. He was brimstone and hell-fire burning.
Although he never said the words he longed to,
he needed to say.
Still you could feel his yearning.
His words would have freed him.
His words would have helped us all to understand.
There were burning itching reasons for his anger.
A string of clues to the language of this man.
So that he could perhaps no longer be to himself, a stranger.
But he lacked the vocabulary
and the wisdom behind the anger never helped him to make a stand.
He could not define it.
His breathing failed him...maniacally smoking over two packs a day.
His heart bursting in the end.
And I try now to figure each of them out.
And find myself wandering inside of melancholy and madness
for clues...
they are two emotions society says "it will not do."
But,
I've never been one to do as I was told.
I am the untamed girl. I must be bold.
Be the woman who walks the outer limits of the wood.
Stalking for the truth in what's unspoken.
Can't have a half-life, stranded on an island
somewhere in the middle
of the mighty ocean...
disconnected from the powers of emotion.
Copyright August 21, 2012 All Rights Reserved By Author.
Melissa A Howells Meloo from her Tilt-a-World
