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Poem

i am the wordsmith
son of the verbalist
my expressions flows 
in clicks of my tongue
like the San of the sands
the only strange thing about me
is my cliks and twists are softer
and sincere
but fearless...
I am the very woman
who will live by her offspring
and voice her dreams
because she could care less
who shuns her because
even then, her skin and 
state of beauty
still sets their tongues wagging
Call her strange but
she is the very woman
who would put her foot down
and swear in the eyes of the beast
that she has had enough
The very woman
who would live until the very end
so that she sees to it that
all she loves stays well
The very woman who would 
halt the habit of a man
who solves his financial crisis
with the back of his hand
and resolves to the toxic green bottle
for refuge
The very woman who would 
live seven lives just so that
her will gets done
She is the very woman
who measures her worth
by the count of heart beat
her essence
has its own calibration
greater than man
She is the very woman
who would be quick to get up
after greatly falling 
and heal her bruises with time
then follow the sun
for her home is where it sets
That woman is me
you
her
them
caged in these little girls
waiting to be unleashed
so they could rule!

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