I hate this poem
for what it is.
I hate that writting
makes me weak,
makes me lose sleep,
and wake up weeping.
I hate the secrets
that I keep
in my words.
Just words,
like any others.
Just a woman,
like so many before her,
never listened to,
or fought for;
always ignored,
underestimated.
This style is dated,
don't you think?
And when you answer me,
do I not listen,
nod at appropriate intervals,
and give a slight wink?
I hate never getting
even a fraction
of what I give.
And are these words not something
for which to live?
Yes?
Then I think
I hate them for it.

08/15/2002

Posted on 08/15/2002
Copyright © 2025 Lacy D Phillips