My Voice, My Story

Near where my kids grew up in Bartlesville, Oklahoma. (c) Kim Bailey Deal

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.

A dusty road in Oklahoma, taken on a trip to see my youngest child, December 2012. (c) Kim Bailey Deal


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


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