We were in so much pain,
but it is pain we did not know we were in.
In our numbness, we did not feel it.
In our darkness, we did not see it.
Through the wailing of our own voices, we did not hear it;
yet we were immersed in it,
somehow, still being able to breathe.
We were listless, and in death,
we were not able to grieve.
Afraid to be awakened,
we were gods in our dreams;
for so long, we were gods in our dreams.
We survived in our numb state,
but then we longed to feel;
for so long we longed to feel.
Then the pain came again,
and it was then we knew it was real;
my god, it was so real.
But we harnessed it, and a fire was lit—
that revealed a truth that was concealed;
for long it had been concealed,
that we were gods among men.
We were gods among men, indeed.
-
-
Marvin Gaye – Just To Keep You Satisfied
-
She stands there, heartbroken,
but with resolve to move on and flourish again.
In silent reflection, her heart calls to heaven
for a true love to send.
She had forgotten to love herself,
so to herself she made amends,
promising to never neglect her heart again.
Until she finds him,
she will be restored in the light of healing in the interim.
Like flowers in spring with vibrant colors blooming—
The beauty of her being is stunning;
in her cogitation, she has found
that she was created in divine perfection,
and her faults make her human.
She will love again.
She is determined. -
She is a purple hibiscus, radiant in her beauty and basking in her glory;
the morning dew is her crown, nurturing her through the warmth of the sun.
The wind blows against her, and her petals are lifted up like a spinning ballerina.
Love, is the rich soil in which she is firmly anchored.
In the celestial display of her colors, she is wondrous.
The aura of her, something ethereal—like angelic whispers. -
The womb of past secrets is stretched in agony,
longing to give birth to what is long hidden and unspeakable;
but its child is stillborn and unmourned,
because dark whispers do not make it past closed doors,
to tell accounts of what was — and the pain that still lingers.
Vengeance is dreamed of, and always tingling on the tips of the fingers.
The heart refuses to fully heal, until there is a reckoning of monsters.
They can no longer live in hiding, plotting; planning.
They must be drawn out, and utterly rooted out by their victims, limb by limb;
even the blood, bone, and sinew of them must not remain.
Nothing shall be left of them — not even the whispers of their names.
After they inflicted anguish, torment and pain
nothing again, ever again, was the same. -
After the storm
She is still;
Her heart is calm. -
Me’Shell Ndegeocello – Soul Searchin’
-
The sorrowful heart, is the pen that writes
anguished paragraphs and chapters of torment.
The author’s bio is a summary of years of lament.
The foreword is written in blood;
the book is dedicated to the withered soul’s remnants.
The eyes of the reader widens, as the first chapter begins.
Tears are shed, and anguished screams are heard, as the final chapter ends. -
You speak to me through abbreviations of the heart:
a light kiss; the brush of your hand against my wrist;
the way you gaze at me when you take your hair down;
your loving whispers to me when I’m down.
Confessions of the heart don’t have to be long —
in short form, I understand.
Through the falling of my joyous tears,
I tell you I love you, again and again.
