ary

My mother says, "Child, no one likes a mad woman".

But mother, did no one like you too?

or did you swallow your madness, choke on it for years after years

to make them like you?

"Write it down", they say.

"Turn your pain into poetry".

But its not just pain, mother.

It is rage too.

A tempest trapped in my chest.

The pages burn to ashes whenever I put a pen to test.

I try to be a poet.

but I am not a poet mother,

I am a woman.

I want to fly and soar

But they clip my wings down.

So I scream and shout

But they tell me I am mad and muffle my cries.

I water down my painful rage

But I keep choking on it.

"Child, no one likes a mad woman", my mother says again.

I know mother, I know.

So I remain silent

like a simmering volcano.

But the day I rise, there will be ashes

No one will like me then.

No one will be left to like me then.