Precious Queen

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I never thought I could play second fiddle to another woman.
I never thought I could envy someone I never knew.
My heart ached while looking at you thinking of her.
Knew her scent was stained onto your skin you carried with pride while i was a distasteful love bite hidden under a scarf.
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I knew you were never mine
For your eyes wandered loose like a vine
Your mind never set on the figure of me
But wanting always to flee
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I used to hold Pain close to my chest in order to breastfeed, nurture him and let him be my own.
I watched Pain grow before my eyes and took pride in the sporn of my suffering.
The child grew and became bigger than what I could control.
I watched him stomp, like a giant, at any dream I tried to grow.
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The message I sent you, the one you so kindly ignored was a difficult one to write.
It climbed up my oesophagus scorching hot and onto my palate where it stepped on my pride on the way out. My pride is a fragile thing after having chased for your love countless times knowing deep down in the pit of my stomach you had none to give to me.
You were a lost man searching for yourself in the midst of my soul, you grabbed whatever good I had left in me, took a second look and tossed it aside.
Even then my eyes couldn' t see what my mind had so desperately tried to convey in dizzy spells and panic attacks....
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I' ve wanted to drown in my tears since I was 7
Hated myself from the age of 8
Wanted to die before I turned 13
Tried to cut away the pain when I reached 16
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I am deep. I am vast.
There are parts of me you will never see nor understand but my love surrounds and often drowns.
I am quiet and I am a storm.
Still and fiery are the words to describe me.
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I sometimes daydream of trauma. Trauma that never happened to me but to women that bared the image of me.
A stronger braver woman who overcame and conquered and ruled in her own little world. A wiser woman who learnt from her mistakes and got back up again.
A bolder woman more eye capturing than what I imagined Cleopatra herself would be
Will I ever be these women? Better
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I hope I birth an author. Pen as their sword and paper as their cradle.
Brave with words and wiser with songs. Strong with rhymes and courteous to poems.
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I'm as troubled as an artist. But I lack inspiration to turn this tears into something worth shedding a tear about.
I lack the words to make stanzas and poems or anything worth listening to.
I am a musician without a rhythm or rhyme.
I am a painter lacking all primary colours, just shades of black and grey.
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