Guest aoife

Healing Poetry

59 posts in this topic

How happily she crys

as she sails the angry seas.

Spreading out the ashes

of things that used to be.

Ready to face the things

that hurt her all these years.

Tired of running from feelings

and deep internal fears.

She'll look to the sunlight

and let it warm her skin.

It's time to end the fight

and find some peace within.

From a 16 year old poet.....

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I'm sorry.....I was very angry when im wrote this.....im so upset.....i dont know how to put myself back together...but i thought maybe this poem would help other...maybe some of you can relate to this?

[before you turn your cheek]

A child's body is not a play thing,

a painless little toy.

A child's soul is not an object

for a man to destroy.

If a child has innocence

it's quickly ripped away

and coldly devoured

to her terrified dismay.

What is it about a child

that fascinates a man?

Is it the never-broken innocence

of sleeping beauty and peter pan?

The adults say there's no monsters

but a child can prove them wrong

because shes felt an ogre's hands

in places they don't belong.

What's wrong with the world

when it chooses to turn its cheek

and ignore the crying children

the obscure, the scared, the weak?

To hear the excuses and cliches

that rise up in a public place

until a child's funeral is held

and a community becomes a disgrace.

Where is god when a child is hurt

does he see the pain in tiny eyes?

Does he see the way men look at her

quieting her with their filthy lies?

Does he hear the words filled with hate

that make an innocent child sob in shame

because shes told she wanted it, shes a whore?

when in truth shes not the one to blame.

What about when she's punched in the face?

Can she ever forget that metallic taste?

that forms on her tongue and makes her gag

with the bruises forming in a new place.

Will this cycle ever end?

The child suffers, the man lives

lies build up, magnify the pain

and push until something gives.

So say it again, scream it if you must

will this cycle ever end?

Is this really the moral message

that we want to send?

Think about the children

before you turn you cheek

stand up for their rights,

the obscure, the scared, the weak.

- LJW

March 7, 2004, 3:24 a.m.

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Here's one that reminds me that everyone is on their own journey. I figure dealing with abuse just speeds up the process in some ways...

The Invitation

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.

I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are.

I want to know if you will risk looking a fool for love, for your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon.

I want to know if you have touched the center of your sorrow, if you have been opened by life’s betrayals, or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine and your own, without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine and your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstacy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning to be careful, to be realistic or to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true.

I want to know if you can dissapoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul.

I want to know if you can be faithful and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty even when it is not pretty everyday, and if you can source your life from its presence.

I want to know If you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver moon “YES!”

It doesn’t interest me where you live or how much money you have.

I want to know if you can get up after a night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done for the children.

It doesn’t interest me who you are or how you came to be here.

I want to know if you stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me where or with whom you have studied, I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away. I want to know if you can be alone with yourself, and if you truly like the company you keep in empty moments.

Oriah Mountain Dreamer ~ Indian Elder

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The Wild Iris

by Louise Gluck

At the end of my suffering

there was a door.

Hear me out: that which you call death

I remember.

Overhead, noises, branches of the pine shifting

Then nothing.  The weak sun

flickered over the dry surface.

It is terrible to survive

as consciousness

buried in the deep earth

Then it was over: that which you fear, being

a soul and unable

to speak, ending abruptly, the stiff earth

bending a little. And what I took to be

birds darting in low shrubs.

You who do not remember

passage from the other world

I tell you I could speak again: whatever

returns from oblivion returns

to find a voice:

from the center of my life came

a great fountain, deep blue

shadows on azure seawater

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The Wild Geese

by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the suan and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over and prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clear blue sky

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

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You Are Not Broken

by Becky Birtha

You are not broken, beautiful child.

Nothing about you is wrong.

Other people have made their mistakes

on you.

But you survived.

You are whole.

You will heal, you will be

all you ever wanted.

You no longer remain

the victim of those years

Your body is yours.

You can fill it with joy.

Your thoughts are in your control.

You feelings are as free as

the sound of chiming bells.

You are loved.

You are lovable

beautiful child.

You always were.

You are forgiven.

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Pierced Ears

by Cheryl Marie Wade

My left ear        I pierced

to say      no

because I had not the strength

to form the word.

Through the hole in my left ear

I placed a gold band

of my father's betrayal.

   My right ear I pierced

   to say I am a woman;

   I belong to all piercings of all

   women of all ages

   I pierced my right ear

   to link my arms

   with the first dark woman

   who shoved a sliver of bone through her nose

   to claim      to reclaim

   In my right ear

   I wear the silver loop

   of my survival.

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An Act of Faith

by Barbara Jordan

In the water   I see stars, among the reeds

the mountain of my face,

and across a distance two geese

in the twilight of the lake, like stilletos.

So many touchstones.  I lean toward life,

I unbuckle the flowers' roots,

hold birds

and know the privilege, know the trees

as vessels of shadow.

And if the sky is gray and anguished gray

                     above a field

before a storm--

and the leaves shake, shake, shake

with a spiritual palsy--

I look over my shoulder unsure; am I observed

or do I observe?

Let show all things splendid,

in their darker nature

splendid also.  Lord, you know the mask

of my face, how I peer at the world

from under a leaf, from under the squint

of my intelligence.

I can't comprehend or find contradiction

in evidence of past milleniums, the broken,

ancient skulls,

galaxies behind the sun.  Certainly all creatures

pause and gaze benignly

into the air, into the light where birds fly

                     and are gone:

this is the light I lean toward.

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turning

by Lucille Clifton

turning into my own

turning on in

to my own self

at last

turning out of the

white cage, turning out of the

lady cage

turning at last

on a stem like a black fruit

in my own season

at last

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The Healing Time

by Pesha Gertler

Finally on my way to yes

I bump into

all the places

where I said no

to my life

all the untended wounds

the red and purple wounds

those heiroglyphs of pain

carved into my skin, my bones,

those coded messages

that send me down

the wrong street

again and again

where I find them

the old wounds

the old misdirections

and I lift them

one by one

close to my heart

and I say holy

      holy.

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Healing: A New Moon Planting

by Kate

i plant a seed

i am the seed

the dark moon

hangs low

in the sky

the dark goddess

speaks to the seed

i am the seed

i am the goddess

i change

am i still myself

i ask

as i break through

my husk

i reach toward the sky

the earth enfolds me

and supports me

i am the earth

am i still me?

I ask the earth

who nourishes and

embraces me

with love

yes she says

you are still you

and are becoming

more and more

your true self

she pushes me upwards

through the dark soil

her embrace reassures me

of my own inner truth

as I rise

as I break the surface

and breathe the

sweet fresh air

rising towards

the moon

the dark goddess

bend to plant a kiss

the moon

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Sacred Circle

by Kate

heart

womb

eggs

soul

woman

sacred

circles

traveling

on a

journey

seeking

other

sacred circles

beginnings

and endings

continuing

creating

more

sacred

circles

only to

emerge

again

sacred

circle

self

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Woman

by Kate

I am

woman

I rise

and fall

with the tide

the moon's

phases

become written

upon my

face

each month

I swell

and bleed

answering

a wild call

from within

and without

I bleed

I bleed

and I revel in

my rebirth

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i am accused of tending to the past

by Lucille Clifton

i am accused of tending to the past

as if i made it,

as if i sculpted it

with my own hands. i did not.

this past was waiting for me

when i came,

a monstrous unnamed baby,

and i with my mother's itch

took it to breast

and named it

History.

she is more human now,

learning languages everyday,

remembering faces, names and dates.

when she is strong enough to travel

on her own, beware, she will

All of her poetry to me is wonderful, although this is my favorite, especially the last two lines

Robin

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Comes the dawn

After a while you learn the subtle difference

between holding a hand and chaining a soul

and you learn that love doesn't mean leaning

and company doesn't always mean security

and you begin to learn that kisses aren't contracts

and presents aren't promises

and you begin to accept your defeats

with your head up and your eyes ahead with the grace

of a woman not the grief of a child

and you learn to build all your roads on today

because tomorrow 's ground is too uncertain for plans

and futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.

After a while you learn that even sunshine burns

if you get too much so you plant your garden

and decorate your own soul instead of waiting

for someone to bring you flowers.

And you learn that you really can endure

that you really are strong

and you really have worth

and you learn and you learn

with every goodbye you learn.

Written by Veronica A.Shoffstall

I apologise if this has already been posted, i did look through and couldn't see it xx

Edited by Broken_wings

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Wouldn't this old world be better

If the folks we meet would say,

"I know something good about you!"

And then treat us just that way?

Wouldn't it be fine and dandy

If each handclasp warm and true

Carried with it this assurance,

"I know something good about you!"

Wouldn't life be lots more happy,

If the good that's in us all

Were the only thing about us

That folks bothered to recall?

Wouldn't life be lots more happy,

If we praised the good we see? -

For there's such a lot of goodness

In the worst of you and me.

Wouldn't it be nice to practice

That fine way of thinking, too?-

You know something good about me!

I know something good about you!

~Author Unknown~

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A weary wanderer laid down her head

And wept of the earth

And found comfort in the warm, soothing, breathing pulses

of her.

Andie

Edited by Andie

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:tear: Thank you so much for posting this Em.

For Children Who Were Broken

it is very hard to mend......

Our pain was rarely spoken

and we hid the truth from friends.<p>Our parents said they loved us,

but they didn't act that way.

They broke our hearts

and stole our worth,

with the things that they would say.<p>We wanted them to love us.

We didn't know what we did

to make them yell at us and hit us,

and wish we weren't their kid.<p>They'd beat us up and scream at us

and blame us for their lives.

Then they'd hold us close inside their arms

and tell us confusing lies

of how they really loved us --

even though we were BAD,

and how it was OUR fault they hit us,

OUR fault that they were mad.<p>When days were just beginning

we sometimes prayed for them to end,

and when the pain kept coming,

we learned to just pretend

that we were good

and so were they

and this was just

on of those days ...

tomorrow we'd be friends.<p>We had to believe it so.

We had nowhere else to go.<p>Each day that we pretended,

we replaced reality

with lies, or dreams,or angry schemes,

in search of dignity ....

until our lies

got bigger than the truth,

and we had no one real to be<p>Our bodies were forsaken.

With no safe place to hide,

we learned to stop hearing and feeling

what they did to our outsides.<p>We tried to make them love us,

till we hated ourselves instead,

and couldn't see a way out,

and wished that they were dead.

We scared ourselves by thinking that,<p>and scared ourselves to know,

that we were acting just like them --

and might ever more be so.<p>To be half the size of a grown-up

and trapped inside their pain....

To every day lose everything

with no savior or refrain...

To wonder how it is possible

that God could so forget

the worthy child you knew you were,

when you had not been damaged yet ...

To figure on your fingers

that the years till you'd be grown

enough to leave the torment

and survive away from home,

were more than you could count to,

or more than you could bear,

was the reality we lived in

and we knew it wasn't fair.<p>We who grew up broken

are somewhat out of time,

struggling to mend our childhood,

when our peers are in their prime.

Where others find love

and contentment,

we still often have to strive

to remember we are worthy,

and heroes just to be alive.<p>Some of us are healing.

some are stealing.

Most are passing the anger on.

Some give their lives away to drugs,

or the promise of like beyond.

Some still hide from society.

Some struggle to belong.

But all of us are wishing

the past would not hold on

so long.<p>There's a lot of digging down to do

to find the child within,

to love away the ugly pain

and feel innocence again.

There is forgiveness

worthy of angel's wings

for remembering those at all,

who abused our sacred childhood

and programmed us to fall.

To seek to understand them,

and how their pain became our own,

is to risk the ground we stand on

to climb the mountain home.<p>The journey is not so lonely

as in the past it s been ...

More of us are strong enough

to let the growth begin.

But while we're trekking up the mountain

we need everything we've got,

to face the adults we have become,

and all that we are not.<p>So when you see us weary

from the day's internal climb ...

When we find fault with your best efforts,

or treat imperfection as purposeful crime ...

When you see our quick defenses,

our efforts to control,

our readiness to form a plan

of unrealistic goals ...

When we run into a conflict

and fight to the bitter end,

remember ...

We think that winning means

we won't be hurt again.<p>When we abandon OUR thoughts and feelings,

to be what we believe YOU want us to,

or look at trouble we are having,

and want to blame it all on you...

When life calls for new beginnings,

and we fear they re doomed to end,

remember...

Wounded trust is like a wounded knee--

It is very hard to bend.<p>Please remember this

when we are out of sorts.

Tell us the truth, and be our friend.

For children who were broken...

it is very hard to mend.<p>by Elia Wise

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This has become one of my favourite poems. It is amazing!

The Guest House

This being human is aguest house.

Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meannes,

some momentary awareness comes

as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,

who violently sweep your house

empty of its furniture,

still, treat each guest honorably.

He may be clearing you out

for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,

meet them at the door laughing,

and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,

because each has been sent

as a guide from beyond.

- Rumi

Each time I read it, I find a new meaning. I love this poem.

hugs,

troubleinparadise

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I.

Joy, love, and an open heart

Still the mind and silence the breeze

Great waves of sympathy roll over

My innocent, smiling countenance.

Forever more my soul sings alight,

Blowing flames into a golden sun,

Gently shedding its silent light

In the passion, the fruit of the great essence

The one that stands alone, like no other

Warmth whose limits know no bounds

And the force that rules them all

But never shows its smiling face.

II.

The night air blows across my skin as the moonlight streams down in between silver clouds, gracing my face with a gentle glow…crickets stir the air into a nocturnal symphony, and my eyes grow heavy with the bliss of deep sleep.

III.

The essence of life flows far afield

From a river so deep…who can comprehend it?

From the countless colored diamonds love flows out

And toward the tide of infinity it returns

Like a butterfly drawn to an ocean of nectar

It echoes in a bottomless pool of being

As it has, and ever shall be, that one force

That one force called me.

IV.

Time passes like a dewdrop

Rolling down the stem of a leaf

It rolls faster and faster

And falls to the ground

Caught in the fold, can we dewdrops

Fall into the lake, and not onto the

Hard rocks?

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I don't know whether this is classed as poetry but was sent to me at a difficult time. It helped me so I thought I would share it

I HAVE THE RIGHT...

to live according to my own conscience, not someone else's.

to make my own choices about priorities, and live accordingly.

to make decisions based on my feelings, intuition, values, needs, capabilities or anything I choose to base them on.

to say no to anything that I'm not prepared to do.

to refuse anything that's against my values or feels too dangerous.

to protect myself from threatening behaviour, humiliating attitudes and hurtful words.

not to trust and believe in people and things that don't feel trustworthy or credible.

to say yes to whatever helps my own growth and well-being.

to trust and believe in people and things on whatever grounds I choose to.

to forgive others and myself.

to find and learn to know my inner child.

to feel whatever I feel about my past.

to have all feelings I do, and to express them.

to be disappointed and sad for what I didn't get even though I'd have needed it, or what I got and didn't want to have.

to be angry even at one I love, when (s)he frustrates my needs or violates my rights.

to be fearful, feel unsafe and be careful.

to feel good when someone else feels bad, and vice versa.

to ask for what I feel: closeness, distance, togetherness, privacy, etc.

to take care of myself.

to want, dream of, and long for anything.

have my feelings, needs, values, wants and choices appreciated.

not to assume responsibility and guilt for others' feelings, needs, values, choices or behaviour.

to expect another person to act honestly and justly.

to be different: more healthy, sicker, weaker, stronger, more hung up, less hung up etc. than others.

to be tempted, to fail, to make mistakes and to be imperfect.

to learn, to change and to grow, anytime and all the time.

As I'm not a slave of my rights, I also have the right to give up any right I have, but from now on I'm going to do it out of love -- never out of fear any more.

IT IS MY DUTY:

to respect these as all other people's rights, too.

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Memory Shouldn't Be...

by Frank Ochberg, MD

and Gift From Within

June, 1993

Memory

Shouldn't be

Shards of a broken dream

Secret pain

Shouldn't strain

Breathlessly to scream

I know the where

I know the when

I know the who too well

Believe me or believe me not

I have a truth to tell

But Mother, if you cannot hear

I'll keep your peace

A day, a year. Forever

If you doubt and fear

Convinces me to silence

Your Honor, if the proof you seek

Is rusted, lost

Too old, too weak, forgotten

Then I shall not speak

Dismiss my plea with silence

It matters not who hears the voice

Once I have understood

The thunder of the truth untold

Will echo in the wood

And judges naked in their robes

Will shudder at the gate

How thin the cloth of innocence

Against the chill of hate

Memory

Shouldn't be

Shards of a broken dream

Secret pain

Shouldn't strain

Breathlessly to scream

I know the where

I know the when

I know the who too well

Believe me or believe me not

I have a truth to tell

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I wrote this today... its about how everything that i used to be angry at, everything that i used to hate about myself, i now find to be the most wonderful thigns about me. I love that i have the past that i have, it made me who i am today.

i am happy. this poem is how i am telling people that.

I’ve seen this broken sky before:

A golden rod upon the moor;

And up from mountain’s fountain springs

Fields of roses, nature’s king.

I’ve sat upon this grass at times:

Contemplating ancient rhymes.

Their message sits atop God’s tree,

Like playful goblins, they take flee.

I’ve felt these stinging tears a lot,

Emotions sway from hero’s plot.

Their life a battle once before,

Now battered armor on His shore.

I’ve seen the sky, the grass, my tears.

I’ve seen the world through child’s fears.

I’ve seen this life in favor’s doubt,

I saw it, then I lived without.

Now as I sit upon this life,

A smile spreads like courage’s wife.

I will brawl with seven sins,

I will fight, not die, but win.

I’ve seen this broken sky before,

Not once, till now, did I see more.

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I wrote this myself..

Every lust penatrate the soul

filling up with fear

The silent scream leaves my lips

how could anyone hear?

the silence now that chokes me,

noone could Not fear.....

fingers bloody evidence.

pass through my pounding neck.

through eyes of blinded chaos i see

his true intent..

Seconds drawing closer

against my fighting breath.

Silence so surrounding, save me from this death

black, am i passed out?

dazed mind stop thinking. shredded heart stop beating

helpful eyes glue yourselves shut

pressure growing stronger, more than i can bare; Stronger

Mind can only scream 'how much longer'

every muscle fighting: nothing, not a chance

with one last glance: hair so red, dyed with sweat and blood

Legs of betrayal support the face of evil

Eyes of masked furry

Stop grabbing at my soul

your hands with twisted fingers

are stealing it from its bed.

pain, awake me from this nightmare

heart witness your loves divere

again and again so full and now gone

eyes of masked furry behind each blink with thunder

awaken sweet savior

immortal i stand

With hands of twisted fingers

Ripping fate from its bed

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Stacey Ann Chin - if only out of vanity. such an awesome awesome AWESOME poet.

If only out of vanity

I have wondered what kind of woman I will be

when I am well past the summer of my raging youth

Will I still be raising revolutionary flags

and making impassioned speeches

that stir up anger in the hearts of pseudo-liberals

dressed in navy-blue conservative wear

In those years when I am grateful

I still have a good sturdy bladder

that does not leak undigested prune juice

onto diapers—no longer adorable

will I be more grateful for that

than for any forward movement in any current political cause

and will it have been worth it then

Will it have been worth the long hours

of not sleeping

that produced little more than reams

of badly written verses that catapulted me into literary spasms

but did not even whet the appetite

of the three O’ clock crowd

in the least respected of the New York poetry cafes

Will I wish then that I had taken that job working at the bank

or the one to watch that old lady drool

all over her soft boiled eggs

as she tells me how she was a raving beauty in the sixties

how she could have had any man she wanted

but she chose the one least likely to succeed

and that’s why when the son of a bitch died

she had to move into this place

because it was government subsidized

Will I tell my young attendant

how slender I was then

and paint for her pictures

of the young me more beautiful than I ever was

if only to make her forget the shriveled paper skin

the stained but even dental plates

and the faint smell of urine that tends to linger

in places built especially for revolutionaries

whose causes have been won

or forgotten

Will I still be lesbian then

or will the church or family finally convince me

to marry some man with a smaller dick

than the one my woman uses to afford me

violent and multiple orgasms

Will the staff smile at me

humor my eccentricities to my face

but laugh at me in their private resting rooms

saying she must have been something in her day

Most days I don’t know what I will be like then

but everyday—I know what I want to be now

I want to be that voice that makes Guilani

so scared he hires two (butch) black bodyguards

I want to write the poem

that The New York Times cannot print

because it might start some kind of black or lesbian

or even a white revolution

I want to go to secret meetings and under the guise

of female friendship I want to bed the women

of those young and eager revolutionaries

with too much zeal for their cause

and too little passion for the women

who follow them from city to city

all the while waiting in separate rooms

I want to be forty years old

and weigh three hundred pounds

and ride a motorcycle in the wintertime

with four hell raising children

and a one hundred ten pound female lover

who writes poetry about my life

and my children and loves me

like no one has ever loved me before

I want to be the girl your parents will use

as a bad example of a lady

I want to be the dyke who likes to fuck men

I want to be the politician who never lies

I want to be the girl who never cries

I want to go down in history

in a chapter marked miscellaneous

because the writers could find

no other way to categorize me

In this world where classification is key

I want to erase the straight lines

So I can be me

(i love the last couple of stanzas the most) youtube this woman to hear this poem performed to get a sense of its true amazing nature

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