Society's Wilderness (July 18, 2018)

I don't remember

Who was the first person

That I taught me

How to hate myself.

It may have been

My younger brother.

Or the kids

In the rural schoolyard

Upon starting kindergarten

Attacking verbally

And physically

For being different.

Not sure

If it's a mercy

Or a curse.

Having forgotten

Those young boys’ name

Who taught me

Being openly transgender

Is playing Russian Roulette

With one's life.

In publicly saying

I wanted to be

Wonder Woman

At the age of 7

During the 1970s.

Spending the next 28 years

In destructive self-denial

Thoughts of daily self-harming

Never far away.

Viewing life

A living death penalty

Without any appeals

Or hint of parole.

Hoping

Never waking up

Next morning

After a night’s sleep.

Anger grows

Having survived

Through the night.

As I move around

The edges of society

Seeking the promised land

From the wasteland

I have walked.

Therisa © 2018

Author's note: From most of my life, I have endure the verbal, physical and mental abuse from others, because I was different. In the case of my family, my mother smothered and manipulated me, taking every major decision out of my hands, as she tried to protect the 4 year old child, who came upstairs, with her mouth blown wide open from electrical burns. As for my younger brother, he’s a narcissistic person, who needs the attention of others.

A poem for Poets United’s midweek motif writing prompt: wilderness.

Caught Between Two Worlds (February 3, 2016)

www.forward.com

Can feel

My emotions

Pushing forth

Beyond the barriers

I have built.

Wondering

As I question myself

For thinking

This way.

Am I

Delusional?

In my challenging

The status quo

That society has

So rigidly imposed

On those

Who are different.

In my wanting

And needing

To fully embrace

This change.

On the physical

And spiritual level.

Knowing

By doing so

I have become

A leper.

For those people

Who fear

And avoid me.

To do otherwise

Would mean

Continuing living

My life

As a ghost.

Moving through life

Unable to connect

With people

On a meaningful level.

Beyond

Being seen

As a pale shade

Of myself.

Neither

Fully alive

Nor

Truly dead.

Sadly

My own answer

To this question.

Is a shrug

Of my shoulders

And a frustrated sigh

As I move on.


Therisa © 2016




Author's note: Not exactly sure, why I wrote this, beyond this driving need, to do so. In having done so, I do feel, a tad lighter physically and spiritually. Either way, this probably, my most spiritual poem, in a long time.