A COMING OF AGE POEM
I would be jane Austen Or Virginia Woolf Or Sylvia plath Or Emily Dickinson Till I can be one or I could be none Till I can carve out the angst of my life in a writer who hates life and still thrives in it Are we talking about women in general? Is my gender universal? Is my self esteem the testament of who I am ? Or my rawness a kind of awakening I have, till I cut all of my strands No hair on my head I am emotionally bald A psychological aporia vestiges of void slip across my existence, like an age old claustrophobia. I get you, you want me to make love to you But I am incapable of feeling in sustainable fashions Either I am an ocean of tides or a desert of ice I can't unlearn my Crudeness At a tender and solemn age of nearing 25 Of why I have no relativity but all Reclusivity My man must have un-alived his will to live When he could foresee his perishable future with me I don't blame him But I am an expert at blaming, women of my...
