Growing Sages

My momma taught me a great many things
from silences still and unbroken
from golden talents unused
she’d rather be token and smoking
than revering in a lineage of women,
that never could and then didn’t.
It is enough to make me cringe
but I won’t, because I am part of the scrimmage
and if I scoff, I am no better off
than the ones who came before me.

Am I a clown for writing it down,
where the entire world can see me,
as I sit and think, my heart begins to sink
what if fear is all I live for,
what if at the end it is not just a blur but a bore?
Words on pages do not make sages
of any drunk poet or me.
Don’t look away, own it
let brew what you know to be true,
on this plane the words can drive me to more than insane.

I may find myself on the ledge
walking the fine line along the delicate razors edge
slicing and dicing through all that is enticing
looking for the right scene to lay my head
or build my beds, planting rows deep
keeping away the crows as I leap
away from cuts and bruises too deep to heal.
Cog or machine in this scene,
is it my job to raise your consciousness
is it even possible for you to learn from this?

If I tell you my poison,
let you touch my dark resin,
will you learn some kind of lesson
in feminism or how to raise a son
or will it become more chatter
in the airwaves, creating more matter
to sort and distort to fit your own need
adding to the creed of greed,
as I recede from relevance, stuck
in my own tenuous dance of existence?