At the worst of times,
Written word and the resounding tones of my sister's voice became my best allies.
When my parents used liquid courage and fists to bodies as communication,
As if simply touching and applying pressure would make the other understand
What they couldn't-
Sometimes just wouldn't-
Say with words.
On paper, spoken aloud
Not with eraseable ink or whispers easily lost in the air.
Instead, they let silent misguidances break the dams of their tolerance.
Let their sadness blossom into thorny rages
Storms that never really calmed,
Only quieted into the silent turmoils no one ever warns about.
My mind, once the clean slate of w crisp paper
Would crumple on hit at a time,
One more sip,
One more abuse.
If its an eye for an eye,
Then my psyche became the rebound of the torrential waves,
Of any volatile lost crusade-
In the right of heart but wrong of mind.
I did not echo the clashing swords of my kin,
Nor did I entreat my companions to cruelties of the heart.
Instead my defenses were built,
On the very same paper of my mind that had been punctured and crumpled before,
Letting the near tragedy bleed and the words stitch the wounds.
For each burnt edge, the calming antitdote of soft surrounding mantras.
For each hole, a bandage of meditation.
For each irreparable tear, my sister's soothing intones to settle the cries for the pieces of myself,
Lost on the battlefront called home,
For the fallen comrades of self I have, as yet, to ever know.
At the best of times, the divine scripts of the spoken word
Of written emotions, became my solace.
A craft weened off the calls of ancestors,
Laced with devout belief
That purges my experience.
A gift of protection of self.