A living crutch

Dear daddy turns around and looks
At me. I think I am his crutch
He cannot do without,
Which is such a sad thing
Because I am me
I must someday away
From him live.

And mommy knows he listens
When I say no he won’t
And I say yes he will,
I am the knot they seem
To have tied to cross into each other’s

But I am not thread
Or wool so you may not weave
Shawls out of me to cover yourself
In your ageing emptiness.

How will I live to grow?
Or blossom when daddy wants
Something I am not

An advertisement
Or the antique artifact
The museum owns

I am the moth that stays
Awake in the dark.

Misunderstandings consume them
Confuse, obliterate simplicity
A garment I am woven of
Out of sunshine God stuffed my being.

But daddy must understand someday
Not all life that comes from him is his
Or that a thing is grown to be kept away
In a dark cupboard without air to breathe,

And mommy must not be so sensitive
Expecting things readily cooked on a plate
Were I their chef I’d cook them both Sense
And season it with Creativity,

But to slander is not me
I am the living crutch they have mistaken
Not always the silent poetry
I am also a girl who talks and dreams.


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