𝐒𝐡𝐢𝐟𝐭

Not A Poem

Sunday to Sunday.. I still didn't know the words to say.. the words to describe how these feelings aren't there for just any reason.. the words to describe that I'm being brought to strong realizations of my life changing and when I'm expressing myself.. I'm saying nothing at all.

These acts of word play aren't being shared, so the pain I am left to bare alone.

Scared.

I am scared that this poetry being the only thing to truly ever describe what happens in my brain won't get me anywhere.

This poetry the way I share my love, tell my love, show my love, doesn't gain me anything but words spilled out from broken hearts and draining tears, the percentage of water in my body being less than the jabs at my heart allowing me then to bleed more than I'd do during any monthly period.

This poetry leaving me in poverty and my ears going deaf to the sirens blaring and ignoring any sense of red or wrong moving because I'm following the same heart that gets left bruising.

Some people have the gift of art in music and painting but mines comes with the way I'm speaking.

The story I tell through these heavy rhymes of intensity, allowing for me to be completely vulnerable and have a bit of hope for my sensitivity to be admirable instead of viewed as weak.

This is not a poem.

This is a call for help.

I'm not just sharing these words because I can, I wish to spread awareness about the things we keep in.

I've never just written a poem...

I've bled into these words.. they've been apart of my body when it was ill, they rolled down my cheeks with every single tear.. these words that I formed into something for others to hear.. these words have been with me through three growing years.

and still, after expressing all these things I've felt, I've said nothing at all.

I've told no one off.

Never being verbally upset.

I've only sat here and written these words down.. closing the notebook or powering down the phone after typing, that's all I've done to help you see me.

What do you see?

How can you see when I haven't really said anything..

This is not a poem.

This is the result of my peace being disrupted.

This is the result of my brain being corrupted.

This is what happens when your heart is misused, this is what happens when you have endured too many acts of verbal abuse.

Sitting here in your presence.. trying to write this message I feel no sense of comfort.

Your age doesn't help you understand, it only lessens your relatability to my current feelings.

You've never written any poetry.

and you don't care to read any of my writings.

But still I'll say,
Dear Mommy.. your daughter was thrown like a deer into headlights and you didn't even know it.. your baby got her heart broken like a lamb to the slaughter.

and daddy, please try to see me for more than everything you have done and know that I am me.. you don't have to fear me being a repeat.

finally.. a letter to me, never stop chasing that dream.. passion over security, despite if mommy hears or daddy cares, it's up to you to make you feel secure.

This is not a poem.

This is all I have to keep me going.

If I ever went under x-ray scanning, they'd see that my heart is lined in black ink, these words embedded within me, covering my heart and causing me to suffer from a different type of led poisoning.

My heart being lead by the words I've just said.

The beats of my heart follow the rhythm and rhyme of each poem I start.

This is not a poem.

This is not a call for help nor any result of trauma.

This is my form of art.

A clear view to my heart.

This is where my story starts and ends.

This is not a poem, but it is all that I've ever been and will be.

A girl, sharing everything she can, all while still saying nothing time and time again.

I'm not sure.. what this is.

- LaDonna
8/13/2023