They say “From broken seeds, a garden grows”
But how broken do you have to be, to fight for the atrocities they show?
They tell me I’m not a true woman,
Yet they fail to define what truth is.
I laugh, Dear God, tell me what kind I should be.
You tell me I’m too naïve, too shy, too lowkey,
I can see your fears are flowy and doughy.
When rage and rebellion burn my soul with fire,
You whisper “Witch!”, and call me a liar.
I laugh, Dear God, tell me what kind they’d admire.
Your brutality knows no bounds,
When you try to label me.
“Too dark, too light, too weak, too harsh”,
Your labels crumble,
Like the sand beneath my march.
You thought your hands that strip me bare would languish my soul,
And I wonder if this fury makes me whole!
You’d chain my voice and dim my spark,
I am the spectrum, the canvas, and the artist’s mark.
Your poison in my veins, your knife within my heart,
Dare you to define the universe within my art?
I ask, Dear God, who are they to judge the beating of my heart?
Your judgment craves a lasting scar,
A hollow echo of your timid soul, without end.
I wonder, who am I, when am I untamed?
My voice, a storm, forever in your heart,
I am the answer, the ending, the brand-new start.
But I doubt, they will ever hold me smart.