For months I listened to your asinine drivel.
Held you in mental arms made soft by kind words,
Made strong by mantras of who you really were.
Consoled your lamentations,
Promised that the idea of you was infinitely definable
And ultimately obtainable.
Showed you the doorway to the imagination
And the abundance of dreams made manifest.
Forever falling you were,
But I showed you how the direction was determined simply by your perception.
All this, all this,
Yet when that most sacred and intimate moment arrived,
And you spoke a name into the darkness,
It was not mine you called.
Pen to paper it was hers,
Words to screen another,
Your lips to my vulva -
"What did you just call me?"
And you wonder why my back is turned...
And when you needed a signiture
To free you from that cold, white analyst's room,
It was my name that escorted you back to colour.
Hardly knowing you, I believed regardless.
And when people fled from you
In a terror of misunderstanding,
Did I not stand and affirm your experience with you?
For if you felt it,
A Truth was there, right?
Always I understood and embraced your confessions.
But when my turn for confidence came
And I spoke to you in that dark room
Of how the 'protection'
That is placed between a Woman and man's flesh had failed,
Of how the intimacies of our life had called forth another -
So I was left alone to be the strongest Woman I knew how
In another cold white room -
Willfully raped, infinitely scarred.
Two months later you re-appeared and wondered why my back was turned...
Whilst I am on the subject,
What of you who took me to your house and murdered a virgin?
Or you who used the fragility of the aftermath of rape
To coerce your way inside of me,
Telling me that I'd,
"Be good at sex some day"?
And you Mr Tuesdayafternoonpianoteacherputyourhandstonguedickinsideofme,
How does that year of theft
From a 9 year olds life
Bear on your conscience?
You who stand there safe in your distance
Full of distain,
Finding me too agressive,
Do you wonder why my back is turned?
You probably do,
You cannot be a coward if you're stupid
Because the stupid do not know that going
Unquestioningly where the stupid group did
Is cowardly, and cowardice is knowing
Your cowardice but being more afraid
Of some stupid little stupid fucking thing
Than how your mere reflecting starts to fade,
A shadow in the gray and darkening.
You cannot be a hero if you're stupid
Because a hero first must fear the darkness,
Then trace the lights of stars back to their homes.
The stupid cannot see that they are naked.
Heroes know the body is a carcass.
The cowards--naked and ashamed--write the poems.
behind the blue words
He sees the hero in us all
we see naked and ashamed
pridefully wanting to play my way song
when Hes waiting to hold you and make it right
we are sorry we hurt you who er you are there
we are sorry we called you bitter
and sorry you didnt like us
so, we had to go
we love you all
and will miss staying to know what has come of our sincere prayers for your lives and souls
we hurt too and get lonely too
but the pain of taking a chance hurting any of you here
is somewhat worse than staying
if i am taken wrongly
but,there are bigger things
than just this litle fist of clay can hold
Eternitys in the palm
of my hand
only because He holds me
i hope some day youll think better things of me and us
more than that, i hope youll lookpast my wodrs to my heart for you to what i am saying
it is love
what's it to you?