Suffocating Silence

Everyone has the desire to be listened to,
but ever since I was three, the urge to be known was apparent
every bone in my frail little body moved to work my fingers through paint
through life and string and glue and anything that would express me through.
I found pencil and paper and the desire to draw
and in me, I couldn't help but think realistically,
"You'll never be heard."
And oh, what a terrible realization to flow through a little elementary girl
As her mind recoiled on sharp images of hatred and sanity and mean words hurled at her
My mind grew, not on love and popularity, but on simpler things like goats and pigs and 
especially horses.
I picked up writing in 8th grade when I found I had a knack for it, less it be a minor quirk or 
whacky inquisition of self image.
However there was a certain solace in writing and art that kept me alive and relieved burden.
Among the crowd of ignorance and cruelty I spotted flecks of gold...
Yet today they flutter away like old memories. They only pretended to be there for me.
And when I really needed them, they never really listened.
So as a determined three year old with a dream to be expressed, there was an adjacent young woman who still desired this,
But with an equally energetic heart, dreams can be diminished.
Now with clenched teeth and deteriorating patience, my nails dig into fresh soil as I bite my lip against authority.
Do I want to be heard?
But doesn't everyone?
Doesn't everyone want to scream at the people who had cast them aside, 
Scream at the gold flecks that shouldn't be just a memory but still a part of your life,
Stand up to the boss who doesn't give you enough credit but instead takes it all for them-self,
Drain the power from corporate banks and the people who stole your home right from under 
your feet, stole the soil that had been immersed into your skin and the aspens that grew, entangled between your 206 bones.
A life full of integrity, dreams and determination drowned in the silent boot of power and a 
little voice inside me is shoved into a box I made when I was six, for my mother who was too busy to play with me because she was trying to provide me with opportunities so that one day,
The voice she shoved down would be heard through her daughter.


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