poetry is my act of rebellion
when the walls close in
and I find myself stuck inside
the roles I've been given.
he has his father's eyelashes
and the soft brown color of his eyes
he is cute as a button and
likes to cuddle all the time.
I don't resent him one bit
he is pure beauty and a love magnet
even when he screams bloody murder
and smells of fresh shit.
no, what gets under my skin is
not being taken seriously
and all the unrequited advice,
the useless bouts of panic,
and the thoughtless comments
I have to deal with.
I wish I could it all on my own
I wish I didn't need to sleep
I wish I had a more authoritative voice
or wasn't this mild-mannered
if wishes were horses...
poetry is my act of rebellion
and I usually don't
spell things out this openly
yet sleep deprivation robes me of metaphors
and motherhood robes me of subtlety.
