if I were to call on the "mourning women" I would call on you.. but how dare I ask you to mourn for my inability to cry, my unstable mood, my disrupted rewound and repeated grief whilst you endure the taunts and ridicule from within at your need to have onset it.
call this one rhetorical butwhat mourning woman can I call on tonight?
surely not the same from many a morning of tea time and many midnight smokes
whats left.. is to learn it, to have it, to hold it
for myself
on my own heart
disjointed from others
mangled in pain
deepened crevices hollowed out like slow-moving water over rocks at the bottom of a stream
I have not the tears to fill this droughted bed
where rivers of love and hope recently ran
recently drove through morning and darkness
giggling and talking
passion and secrets
breathing for one another while the fear of truth causes us to hold our breathes and quiet our thoughts to a whisper.
I dont want to be right
but Im humble enough to realize that in the case that I am
I need to tell you now
that I will Never forget My mourning Woman
*I had planned to not post this, but Im in no particular mood for censorship
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