I know you'll get mad,
And burn your hazel eyes into mine,
But its okay..I've become used to the angered looks you'd give me,
Before you claim that I'd want to be someone else daughter or even slaughter the chance of me speaking please listen,
I'd scream till my throat is raw with the satification of being able to breath without the rememberance of your words weighing down on my lungs,
But I can't,
For I am poets, and poets don't scream,
We weave the words that we long to say into works of art and pray someone takes a look into what we have to offer,
So I'll paint my portrait,
Your words sting and bring me the worst pains,
When you suggest such things it's hard to digest.
I can only take but so much mother.
And others don't know because I refuse to make you look bad,
Infact most of the time my silence is intact,
Is because my heart feels attacked and I feel defenseless, and relentless in the battle of all the words that bottle up so they won't topple up out of my mouth.
I kept my thoughts quiet because I feared what I'd hear and neared the point of explosion,
Explosion was not optional because I respect you,
So I went did as told,
And I felt opening up to you getting old because I assumed the outcome,
Frustrated sighs, annoyed looks from the side , and silenced by nothing more than a hand or a firm voice that confirmed you had heard enough,
And I believe that what I said was enough..
