Sitting within a room that’s full,
Of chaos, lies and the constant pull;
Of a juggler sweating to keep afloat,
The untrue life that he had wrote.
To lament a story that knew no love,
Cried out from within like a wounded dove;
Understanding little of the time he spent,
In a room for sale but not for rent.
No window to gaze from with wonder or joy,
No happiness or peace for a lost little boy;
Will juggling come stopping eventually?
And weariness come abating - finally?
A doorway appears on the farthest wall,
To leave this room now grown too small;
A portal to dreadful and undying remiss?
Or the birth of womanhood and life’s newness.
A brand new room he does now enter,
Stand in the clean of its vacant center;
Pristine and empty with virgin pallor,
To walk its floor in peaceful valor.
The chance to live as he once would dream,
The woman inside him that had to scream;
Be her that come knocking upon the door,
To shed her falsehood she had known before.
Nothing to fear, to worry or doubt,
The woman inside is finally out;
The freedom once lacking now forever to be,
The woman that was always inside of me.
Leave a Reply