A self portrait

This is a portrait of a woman that was born in pain… and is longing for change…
A woman with a rough kind of beauty… a one not easy to pick up, hidden behind all the easy common ugly… A rebel kind of woman… so much rebel it got me getting out of heaven doors… and so much trouble to get all the human race blaming me for… kinda like Eve… climbing forbidden trees.

This is a portrait of the stanzas that flow from my left atrium to my toes and every finger tip… the poetic scriptures created with every rise and fall of my chest… made for poetry this breath is.
Things rearrange in my chest when the tip of a pen strikes the gut of a notepad… erupting everlasting convulsions of euphoria… got thoughts dancing on musical muses… turn up the volume… no valium…
“I am what I am when I’m am it”* and I’m most am it when I’m behind a microphone for only a microphone got the power to unleash… the dragon spitting fire… with every beat… it’s a roaring heart beast burning everything deep… paving lava splattered streets… voice is like bricks bulding holy belief… just behold and believe… those stanzas defeat… all the evil you can hear… you sing with me… only when you are a poet you can never be weak… Say I can never be weak…

This is a portrait of a chosen… an embodiment of a prophet… for only they know the power of words… Yes, they fought battles… but first came words then came swords… and I don’t believe in no swords… no guns or AK47… you see bullets make people run for life while words make them turn around and listen… that’s the archery of poetry… poets speak their weapons.

And this is a portrait of a warrior… a one not seeking martyrdom… for I fear to die with poems trapped in me untold… and I want them to reach all the parts of the world…
I want to turn my spine into wings made of letters… and let the wind carry my stories untethered…

And I’ll write for this land that my guts spat its love bitter… but it’s damn river… still runs deep in my veins there’s no escape from this kin or this skin or the patriotic sins… I’ll write about the rape that got too often that rapists got more excuses to rape than their victims got to not fight back… I’ll write for wars bearing deaths no one is praying for or even wanna to talk about… and for no bearded men with labeled flags are preaching a fight for them… for those worthy souls…

I’ll write… for the 15 years old girls using their wombs too soon… I’ll write… for everytime we feel like our voices will never be heard… I never thought my voice could be heard… but tonight I’m here and I’m standing and I’m blasting this language I’ll write and I’ll write until I learn how to love myself fully… and till I’m the first one to be proud of myself…

I’ll write for the back bone that’s my Mother… for the holy sweat that’s my Father… for all the fight in my sisters… I’ll write with all of my bones and nerves… I’ll write even if my hands shake and my words slur… I’ll write breaking the curse… I’ll write praising the lord… I’ll write them words and pour them out of my throat… words kissing every flaw and hurt… this is the fight my tongue picked… and my tongue doesn’t forget…

This is the portrait of the poet… inspired by pain… inspired to change.

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Link to the Italian translation

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