PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Aggressors come from your births,

armed with guitars, to hate me when I speak.

Screams of notes shred my ears

to hear the same, and more again.



Resonance in the familiar wires

that haunted my youthful mouth,

only for the amplifier

that was my mother.



Noise that screams through the floors,

that ignores the woman I was,

in favor of the womb I have become.



Live now for my placenta money,

my tubed food,

my red warm shelter.

(equipped with my blood

as proof that I must exist.)



Yet to your mind

I am a womb

and nothing else.

While your history

yet un-made

tries tirelessly to be born

to deem right and wrong,

good and bad,

my history

tries tirelessly

to avoid death.



And your hatred holds firmly

my tongue



The afterbirth pouring from your thoughts

trying to whip me into understanding.

Respect isn’t offered.

It isn’t earned.

It doesn’t exist there in the cord

that demands to be cut.



My mouth withered with your attempt

at wisdom.

My self abandoned,

for your narrow mind,

and your hatred

holds firmly

my tongue.