Voice

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love is a woman

You hold me like an anchor, 
Like suicide ropes hold their beloved 
Without fear for the soul sleeping silently within
And this soul rests like rosewater in a potter’s brown pot
Swaying like a ravenous blizzard who lost its mother.

You whisper my name and I become the words of a poem;
Unable to move, unable to have its own thought: 
“Why does your pen only speak poetry
Why can’t it tell a story? 
Is it because you lack a creative mechanism to muster distinct thoughts? 
Why are your speeches and steps scripted?”

Your words strike me like a knife in my chest dragged up to my throat, stuck underneath my chin, 
But yet all I bleed is indecision and the inability to complete a poem
All because my anxiety has pretty hair and polished nails, 
She wears a skirt and dark makeup,  
And her steps are soundless;
Like rain piercing through clouds even when she wears heels.

But for now this soul will sway, 
For now this poetry will speak, 
And for now she’ll stay with me;
(Or perhaps it’ll be forever) And cause these tears to roll
Like rosewater from the soul. 

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