deepundergroundpoetry.com

She Her I

I heard a woman speak
about the birth of dead,
miscarriage of justice.
I heard a woman wear  
her bruises as armour,
violence in her home.
I heard a woman cry
in a public cubicle, with a toddler at her feet
screaming louder than she could.
I heard this symphony,  
broken women made of thorns,
Queens of our society,
muddling through these slow burning wars
and the cacophony of truth was deafening,
deafeningly quiet.
ImperfectedStone
Written by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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