I can write this safely, secure in the knowledge that
My mother will never read it.
Much as I yearn for her sympathy and understanding
She lacks capacity to relate, help, or understand me.
I am more fearful of having to deal with
The repercussions of her misinterpretation.
My mother prefers to deal in the lies and distortions of hearsay
Manipulated by the speaker, further twisted by the hearer.
She accuses me of using written words as weapons of cleverness
Of playing them to my advantage against those who can but speak
And feel reduced and vulnerable therefore, when faced with
The onslaught of my written words.
Accommodations have never been made for me.
I have always been selectively mute.
Another convenient fact about my life
That nobody noticed.
Nevertheless
My poetry is not something you can twist into the shape of a gun.
I reject this notion out of hand!
My written words do not represent pieces of shrapnel
Directed at those who try endlessly to erase me.
My written words
Are simply my voice
Of self-expression.
I am allowed to use my voice to express my life
Even if it makes you uncomfortable.
My written words hold power, yes
But they cannot kill you
Like the bullets in a gun
My written words don’t even have
The volition to silence you or shut you down.
When you stop feeling threatened by my written words
The distortion becomes obvious
The lies unravel
Truth is exposed.
Truth is exposed.
I only wish to exert my rights
For my voice to be acknowledged
To be cherished loved blessed alive.
