The Poetry of Penelope Carroll

This is my voice.

It has been silenced

in ways you dare not imagine.

Threats and throttles.

Buried beneath the years.  

But I discovered it.

I dug through filth and fear

to obtain it once more.

It is higher pitched and

slightly scratched.

But it is mine.

Do you understand?

Mine. And I will use it.

To voice every feeling,

every thought that

expands within my head,  

and extends through

my fingertips.

I will speak. I will write.

And worlds will hear me.

I had gone because I needed to commit to memory how it felt to be pressed against him. How my jaw rested upon his shoulder and my fingertips softly dug into his back. How he smelled with my face flush against his chest.

I had gone because I needed to see sorry cross his face, though as always, he was stingy with most all words. I had needed to pick up the memories of me scattered throughout. To have no reasons of remorse or return or regret.

I had gone to try to understand, but left with a myraid of more questions. How had I let months pass into a cemented failure? Why was I so patient with those who fail to value my worth? What brings me to love and yet not be loved?

I had gone, through. Yes. To whatever other side I was suppose to be on. And I did so with as much poise as I could manage. And no matter how many times gone comes about, I still do not understand the compass of hearts.