The voices getting loud
a heated discussion in place,
is this the sound of a tree falling?
At me, my voice says that
this is right,
even if not for them.
I shout that it's okay if not,
because this is what I am.
Maybe it's not.
And then, a voice,
creaks through
and tells that I still
don't know my place
as a daughter, a female, a human,
and I want to scream
that yes, I do,
but then the head stops spinning
and the answer is clear:
I'm glad I don't know who I am in this world
because I dream,
I cry,
I wrong,
and my heart is still beating
so I can do it all over again.
YOU ARE READING
Winter Flower
PoetryAbout me, depression and hope blooming like a flower in winter. Di me, depressione e della speranza che nasce come un fiore in inverno. Collection published in both English and Italian.
