She knew well
the manner of giving,
knew not to ask,
knew how to survive
on smiles amid the
indebtedness
an affliction
from a childhood obligated
to some person, preacher or other
And with not a kind hand among them
she found duty bred fear in its resistance.
Love always ended like the rains
that turned her pavements black
where
she'd run
all plimsolls and pearls
wearing pain
like purple undergarments
that caught on fickle winds;
wondering if they
ever noticed the off-notes
like when her legs
moved out of tune,
and did they feel her bristle
on their faces
of expected gratitude
or see how daubing her
with their concrete greys
of added responsibility
only sheathed her
in a pin stiff frost of non-negotiable.
All she ever wanted
was to be receptive
and (not just)
responsive
but would get lost
in the just doing
of feeling a way
through sex
and vice
with words
that didn't suffice;
loosing sight in the toughs
of their what was
and wasn't enoughs,
where bitter losses were lonely
and negotiating on her knees
never did feel good.
Fearful,
that neither their sunshine nor rain
would quench her thirst
she reasoned
she would always struggle to
accept their claims to her Love
while she
still owed it to herself.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Expressed in a lovely calming way. As if SHE is accepting to all thrown in front of her. Thank you and look forward to reading more
Thank you