#7: Without my voice

I can't speak

For me, that's a relief 

For all that seemed to come out when I spoke

Were a series of  "I shoulds" and "I shouldn'ts"

Each declaration - an ask too tall 

For my dreams and desires to scale.

And all that my words created was 

A monstrous, formidable dam 

Where there should've been a flowing river. 

I can't speak 

For you, that must be a relief 

For all you seemed to hear 

Were "you don'ts" and "why don't yous" 

Far outweighing the I love yous,

My questions just rhetorics 

Blocking any hope of reconciliation .

And all that my words created was

A fence of twisted barbed wire 

Where there should've been a park bench. 

I can't speak, 

For them, I bet it's a relief 

For now they can pat themselves proudly on their backs 

That they were right all along,

And make indisputable claims 

That their truth is mine.

The unfairness of it all crushing 

all questions I ever dared to ask,

Until all that is left are lofty pedestals 

When there should've been a welcoming dinner table. 

I can't speak

Which might as well be 

For the questions seem meaningless 

The demands too trite 

The pleas all futile. 

I can't speak. 

I don't miss the words 

even as I seek comfort in the silence 

ever so,
once in a while, 

I do miss the singing. 

Amazonian Woman

Amazonian woman you call me
as you see me walk across the room
a tall towering body
holding itself magnificently!
Would you then laugh at my face
if i were to reveal to you
just how small i feel inside?
How i feel ashamed even today
When i look at this same magnificent body
naked in the bathroom mirror – all steamed up
yet clear enough to throw back the reflection i cant bear to look at?
And would you believe me
if i said that those rare times when I share my dreams
with friends, with strangers
that even as the words haltingly pass my lips
my ears catch the unsaid mocking voices saying – oh really?


You probably would dismiss me with a wave of your hand
Roll your eyes and say “enough of this self-doubt”.
But will you ever understand how much
just how much i yearn
to see, to feel, to embrace this Amazonian woman that you see me as?


You probably would classify this as PMS.
But as you label it to fit into your understanding,
Will you understand that each morning i do wake up
Filled with a hope of making things different
for me,
even as i feel my life energy slowly bleed away.

You’d probably say I am being melodramatic

But do you also see
how i struggle –
to hold my head high, though the neck is all twisted with knots of tiredness,
to keep the shoulders straight though the back seems bent with all the trying
to extend my arms in greeting though the feet seem to sink in quicksand
Ah – after all an Amazonian woman I am!


(one of my really early pieces - written sometime in 2013.)