I’m shaking things up a bit today and sharing and extra day this week, as well as sharing a poem I wrote.
Poetry was my first love. I wrote it when I was a little girl, lost in my own worlds in my room or outside in one of my secret places in the woods. Verse was the only way I could give myself to the page back then. Though mine wasn’t very good, in its crude way poetry helped me continue to write so I would one day find my voice, that small and quiet one inside clamoring to rise above the noise and the jarring shouts of the world.
I wrote this poem last year in response to criticism of my blog and the content of my posts. As there were when I started writing about my life in my little poems and stories, there remain individuals whose disdain for what I write is palpable and clear. I wrote this particular poem after two people I love more than life itself estranged themselves when I wrote and posted an honest account of an experience I had, one where they obviously saw things much differently than I still do.
To be estranged from them continues to leave an empty place in my heart that nothing or no one can fill. Though painful to go back and read this poem today, I believe someone out there may be able to relate and be encouraged by these words–this declaration of self.
Thanks for reading.
My Voice, My Story
Deep in the marrow, through the bone
Across the veins and steeped in blood
Upon the skin which these tears flood
Those steely blades, they cut and slice
A lamb must pay the sacrifice
For the sins of those before and those to come,
The gavel echoes with clever lies
My eyes now dry and red with stain
My heart pumps despite the pain
My bloody hands and past so broken
Which held me hostage, I was their token
But here I stand as from the ashes I arise.
And here I am to tell my story
These words which flow so freely now
Black on white, still uttered somehow
The truth from mountain tops shall ring
The voices from ancient angels sing
Float upon my broken wings, and fly in glory.
Kim Bailey Deal
October 1, 2014