Sensitive Is My Shame
Since a little girl, I have been sensitive. Hiding behind mother was my place to be.
Mother used to say that I was born different. My eyes were pools of sadness, dark
brown and full of sorrow. As I grew words said effected me deeply. I did not brush
them off, that was not me. The words were like scars on my soul, they dwell there.
Terrible, awful death shadowed my days and how I handled it was to go deep within.
I dwelled there, happy with imagination. I made up stories and lived them. I would
read books in a secret corner of the attic. I liked to wander the woods near home.
I saw things there that touched me, little baby birds, young squirrels playing, nature
growing all around me. I told my sadness to my kitty, she was a good listener.
in woods wandering
I find my sweet peace and tranquility-
green lush vines creeping
Soon, I was a teenager. I was quiet and alone in my private world. Words lashed at
my soul like whips. Perhaps the words were not even that terrible, I twisted them
that way. I was extremely sensitive and it was a curse. Yet, in the end it turned out
to be my most precious quality, sensitive to all I see and feel in this world has made
me the poet that I am today. I can now write with soul all that I see wrong in the
world with emotion. But part of the little sensitive girl hides inside of me, often she
is hurt by a word said, even if innocently said. It is a curse and a blessing.
the birds are chirping
they are calling me to the green lushness-
words fall from my pen
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April 16, 2016
Poetry/Haibun/Sensitive Is My Shame
Copyright Protected, ID 16- 778-484-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Copyright © Constance La France | Year Posted 2016
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