Time and time again
I have crawled back from the depths of hell
To resurrect this shell
That houses the life I claim to be mine
Giving thanks
To these rusty tired bones
For holding my relentless spirit together
When I slow dance with my shadows
Or try to embrace my demons
Through this poetic worship.
Season to season
I have seen my pain fold its sharp edges
Through the evolution of time
As this gift rhythmically excavates prose
From my bleeding wounds
While mysteriously helping
In the accumulation of this ink
That would later free me
From the borders of my flooded eyes
Only to paint
A dull mosaic of my gathered scars.
Lesson after lesson
I have watched my unwilling self sacrifice herself
To die alone one too many times
At the feet
Of this haunted and bloodied altar
With my decaying heart laid bare
On my hands are the memories
Of a love language, I am yet to forget
And on my skin
Lies the poetry my lover
Sang to me.
Day by day
I have won unimaginable battles
Against myself and the unforgiving society
I have mastered the ways
One can silence the shrills
Of the violence perched at the gates of my mouth
Always looking to free
The aching diseased inner world
Plagued by the urge to defend my ego
Through weaving my words
With anxiety
Before they leave my tongue.
My ability to write changes with time... Sometimes it is very easy to bring a piece to life but other times, I got to sink my claws in the sand and drag the truth out of my toddling poet. And as a scribe who draws from her sensitivities springs, I am allowed to say that writing from a place of wielding vulnerability requires courage and I am not always that bold.
...wambuku w.