Prena Poetry

i am dead tired to my bones
writing about women withered by life—
who had her face in the cup of her
beautiful bruised plams and cried
for the yearnings she had to toss in the river.

i am dead tired to my bones
reading every poetic masterpiece
about heart broken women.
who can now only live in the idea of love
because the world wants a mother
before the girl in them has known
about the world and it’s cruelty and magic.

feminists being hated.
mother being shamed to their graveyards.
lovers being called ‘too much’
sisters being mimicked and mocked
for the shrilling tone of her raised voice.
children giving up their dreams
to helplessly place their head
under the big boot of bureaucracy.

i am dead tired to my bones
being all those women
written out of the quintessence of oppression.

i am sorry.
i wrote too, and called myself a writer
for breaking hearts of
all the women in my poetries.

i now understand.
we are far more
than this labeled idea.

we will always be.