A tool is your liberation but it can also be
your prison.
A sewing machine, for instance.
Something that gives beauty can also
symbolize a death.
The flowers on the shelf, for example.
There are stories I’d like to tell
of survival, of beauty,
but I haven’t yet found the words,
or am afraid to.
For what I find in writing, many others
find in living day to day. What they find
in day to day, without writing, I miss.
This is not an admission of ignorance, only
an admission of the need
for stories to be told.
I don’t know what I am waiting for.
For the fear of not doing it justice
to subside.
It’s not my battle, I would say,
It’s not my fight.
And then wait, I would wait,
for the respect,
barely ever given.
The thing, you see, about fearlessness
is it breeds fearlessness.
You know, brazenness, that boldness,
that kind of thing, that stomping all over
another’s things like a bratty child on a playground.
It is monstrous to me because I’d find it monstrous
in myself.
Our monsters are within us.
A tool is your liberation but it can also be
your prison.
A sewing machine, for instance.
Something that gives beauty can also
symbolize a death.
The flowers on the shelf, for example.
.
.
