My inventive voice was long ago silenced, smothered by required niceties, social acceptability, and good manners. But somewhere buried in me, I know there is a vibrating, caterwauling soul screaming to get out. Why else would unbridled uniqueness and unbound originality bring unwept tears of longing to my eyes? Why else would I feel the compulsion to write poetry in green ink on my perfectly acceptable white walls or yearn to ink dark moonflowers and orange butterflies in flight on my also perfectly acceptable white body? Yet, how do I find that girl who has swallowed her words or spoken them in a cipher of other less potent ones, to disguise them as perfectly acceptable and white? She is wandering in a labyrinth somewhere I have never gone before.

One thought on “Buried

  1. tabeasley

    I love all the brave colors coming thru your white. Maybe you need a “coloring book” that’s just for blacks and browns and all that hard jagged stuff to land. And I’m pretty sure you’ve got your very own inkster in the making to help you out with that part 😉 Youll probably be covered by the time you’re 60.

    Liked by 1 person

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