Who to blame?
I guess not,
As I live in a prison of my creation,
A prisoner of my identity, silence.
Like the water that loses its name
When it weds with the sea,
I am everyone I shake hands with and
Their fingerprints are printed on my soul.
The figure of a creature that lies behind
Your eyelids is a case of a mistaken identity,
My transparency is clad with dust
Like the water that takes the tint of all colours.
Not at the same degree do we boil,
Like a kettle I go silent like the dead
Before the water cries,
In silence I weep, bottling the sound of sorrow.
With their sharp tongues,
And their piercing eyes,
They gash me deep, and throw me in a chasm
Of sorrow where I sob with a sham smile, silent.
I listen to the silent deafening screams of my heart,
Attending to the grief of my soul,
As I fashion my wounds with the poet’s vocabulary
They mandate how to colour my bruises.
An appeal to the poet in me,
As I sign this petition with my hand,
May you release me from the captivity
Of negativity, and be my mouth, my voice.
Revive my spirit from the dungeon
Of grief, drenched with tears,
Lick my wounds with your tongue like honey,
And instill in my soul peace, freedom, and salvation