MILLER'S PROPENSITY TO BE A BUTTRESS
Young at age but old at mind
was brave, gentle, wise, and kind.
Settled to be someone else
that none was to me; names fell—
effaced or keenly dispelled.
Waking whole, sleeping broken
'til the end, eyes wide open.
Cried help in secret letters
without a help to cry for—
not all bridges can be fair.
Have worn so many faces,
don't know where the real one is.
The pain of humility—
graced the soul, barely breathing,
in a blind community.
A heresy to the pure,
advocacy made unsure.
Indeed, I am the buttress
of my own crumbling fortress
built by empty promises.
YOU ARE READING
NIGHTMARES
PoetryA collection of self-written poetry about the writer's nightmares and trauma.
