Born of a struggle

Feel I must
Go deep
Don’t push a poem out
for a hungry crowd of inner critics
milking the joy of living from my aching breast

it will come out rancid and lifeless

Butterflies and baby things must be born of a struggle
a struggle to express
to come out from inside

not that it must be hard
but to be heard
a voice must be raised
lifted from the depths
and offered out soaking and slippery to the world

stop grasping at the unripe fruits of my heart
this is not the way
they will not sate the hunger

sit quietly by instead
and wait
for them to land on my head.


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