Wepts/ Tears

My woman is dying, she cries out at all times of day... and night.  Screaming for life, searching for truth.  With enough strength to  see her... past my surface.

Understanding vulnerability, a mountain, not  judging or planting  weeds where flowers grow.  Pulling weeds creates Stone where there was once life that breathed.

My woman cries out for glory, light where darkness has prevailed.  Triumph where many have fallen.  Short quick attempts at life have created an inner starvation.  Grasping for air, she claws with her bare hands. Opportunity to see a better anything; a better man, a better lover, a better person.

My woman is found, searching to be found.  Screaming to be seen; completed.

Giving herself  to less deserving.  Sacrificing many needs for one need.  Forgiving mindlessness.  Understanding insanity.

I am a starving malnourished need for appreciation.  My break lasts from my birth throughout  my decades. 



I was born a wound, open broken flesh never healed.  Born a knife wound to a half dead, beaten, broken, body.  Life is a burden.

Wounds constantly scraped, incapable of scabbing over.  Slits welt, tears become infected oozing with desperation to know healing.

Malnourished need for appreciation; I starve.  Broken since birth.  Where is value when abusers and oppressors are more important to your birther than you are?

I am a woman.  I am a little girl.  I am a child.

My soul sobs at night for a caretaker, who may see my mountains flowers and plant trees.

Recognize where weeds have become pulled and plant love... possibly removing Stone.  Creating live where hardness and cold, dead weight took over.

Breathing life into soul where mountain hardness and death have made home.

Hoping one day God will provide clarity of my fire and why my heart has to unravel.  My mind has to begin unpeeling itself for my life to be validated.

My soul howls through my days and night to know peace.

Is that why I strive to so hard to give it to others?

I am a welted scabbed, bruised, broken, beaten, mangled creature.  I can not call myself human because human's are beautiful. 

I am pain, anger, devastation, and abuse.  There is nothing beautiful about the walking dead but their death.

Until peace can rise, I cry.

Phire Free © 2011