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 kind and myself

Are we really heroic or just vile? 

Are we really making ourselves, a over run street of coming of age times? 

But I used to come at an age 

Till I died at an age

Must be 21 or 22 but my body couldn't stop to outgrow myself

And now this all has to unfasten in ways, till I can say to a kid

" Don't take life, too seriously ".

" It's just rubbish "

Leeza