Gratitude
the hunter; the hunted; the hunt. Content Warning.
from between my lips, the great white-lies are feeding on anything they can sink their teeth into. jagged fangs ready for action as the frenzied schools amass in the shallows, and the vast depths of consciousness are left vacated as i myself become one with the predator, the prey, and the waves of thought washing over my body. unintelligible motions seeking to consume, seeking to escape, seeking to prove an eagerness and ability to exist.
By ⸘jason alan‽5 years ago in Poets
PATRICIA
My mother, she was strong. I didn’t think so when I was young. When I was young, my house was filled with the roaring of men. They inspired stubborn pride and a hunger for strength. It was easy, when I was young. Boys and girls were similar in strength. A girl could fight a boy and win, when we were young. And winning, I always did. Strength, to me, was a man’s. Six boys and three girls, what else could one expect? For a girl to be strong, she would need to be like a man. To stand without shedding tears. To dominate unwaveringly. Strength, to me, was my father. Not the woman who cried behind closed doors. Not she whose place was in the kitchen. Not she who sought compassion from those who could not walk a mile in her shoes. Strength, to me, was not my mother. It became tougher when I grew up. Boys and girls were no longer similar in strength. To win became harder and to grow called for tears. I hid, as I grew up. Ran from emotions that I felt were weak. Fought with my mother, who only wanted her girl to be near. What else would one expect, from a girl who now carried the roaring of men? I was a fool as I grew up. How could I not see, I now wonder. My mother, she was tall. As sturdy as a tree that weathered many storms. Her heart glowing big and wide like the sun, she loved me as we fought, as I hid and thought her weak. Love, was my mother. With love, she held me when I first cried, And carried me through womanhood. Caring, was my mother. With care, she explained what eluded me Intelligence, I then realized, was within me too. Wise, was my mother. She looked at me as I grew up. Saw what I admired in others, and taught me how to recognize my own. “Beauty,” she told me, “is something we have within us all.” Exceptional, was my mother. Her patience was an art form. And her dedication, worth praise. Dazzling, was my mother. When death crept in uninvited, She who I thought weak proved me wrong with a smile. My mother was an ocean. Majestic and serene, she became my ideal. Her head was held high as disease devoured her. Her tone had grown softer as she shared with me her heart.
By Shequinah Rayanh Nanshanapa5 years ago in Poets
Publish Your Poetry Collection on Amazon
Do you write poetry? Can you make money from writing poems? The answer is yes. I hadn't thought about it until I wrote a collection of poems. I started to write poetry more than I thought it could be possible. Writing a poem every day knowing I could publish a book motivated me. It can motivate you too.
By Denise Larkin6 years ago in Poets
