I've been reflecting and marinating.
Whisper tones spoken to myself while eyes glisten.
Say nothing, because I'm never not listening.
Picture those broken before,
acknowledge,
pay homage
with feet forward and every good intention.
Fellow poets,
I scribble trauma and drama
with pain and erase
outlines for few to follow
Don't tag along unless you wallow.
Tryna face my prose
while staring holes in my feet.
Attempting to keep what I've learned on lock.
I'm far from perfect with this dulled edge.
I'm quite reserved and maintain my morals at night
when I go to bed.
Just being real.
I'm not a liar, and fuck it,
by the minute, I'm shyer
and tuck my tail in to preserve what the proof is.
I can't win for losing
'cuz by the time this hits the books,
you'll have to squint to see where the black and blue is.
In a slow cooker, faithfully stewin'
shenanigans and backwards pedaling.
Breaking free from old habits that trouble me.
As far as I'm concerned,
I'm just another form of self menacing and meddling,
and I've never touched down,
but ready to shake it up with more belt notches
and break some ground.
~Tina Meeks
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