I am a voice.

My father proudly called me his poet,
but I’m not so sure I am.
Unless you count the strings of broken lyrics
scribbled on each page,
filling up my pink, floral notebook.

See,
the cover of my journal tells a story
of daisies and daffodils,
and gold calligraphy letters that scream femininity.
I think my mother bought it
to empower the little girl in me.

And yet,
How dare I fill those pages
with ink that bleeds from my heart?
How dare I write words
of rebellion and disappointment?

Sorry,
I’m not the proud, little girl my mother
wanted me to be.
And I’m not the talented poet my father
willed me to become.

No,
I bleed in clumps of words
and I transfer my scars on paper.
And the people who adore my writings
are the underdogs in society.

I may not be your poet, dad
and I may not be your feminist, mom
but still,
I am a voice.

Sometimes I am all but a whisper
but still,
I am a voice.

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Author: Gittel

Art is the desire of a man to express himself, to record the reactions of his own personality to the world he lives in. -Guitar-Watercolors-Poetry-Journaling-Blogging-Teddy Bear Petting-

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