OK . . .
dictate what you wish,
but I no longer listen
to the mangled mess you dish
to your pickled theories
steeped in passe broth
no longer betrothed
to your gnawed gristle... I am here, after years,
of doing all the chores
Laundry folded, put away
house cleaned, neat
well oiled machine I thought complete
but lacking something
in my fear
of reaching out
overcome those doubts
of ridicule, of cynicism
never letting go shyness
an excuse to hide, thus
never growing - life slipped by
and who am I...
who am I?
You opinions rain down
upon me, all around
such a mess for me
to deal with, but see
I don't subscribe
to your theory of conscience now...
Your philosophy of rightness
is drivel - I eschew
that which confiscates my inner wisdom
and I am through
washed hands of your soiled version
which included a tainted me
thank the gods, I am free... so, at almost forty
I go forth into the world
nearly a girl
refreshed, renewed
there is joy yet to glean
a new me to find, hard and lean
tattooed and pierced, what the hell
I wear them well.
K.E.C., 26 July 1998