The dark bears familiarity.
Profound horror, with grief meddling.
Like when I stroll at night, lurching through with anxious feet
No chance to glance up the lustrous moonlight
For what can the roads bring if pierced through a tranquil time?
Gripping on my cold arms, I protect some kind of fear
While I disguise her in grit and firmness so I may quell whatever danger.
It’s a normal night, promised with peace, but not when I am one who’s born wary of eyes that linger.
The same darkness persists when I search for meaning—for a name and a place, Through many men that inhabit the world with effortless power.
I speak with confidence, craft the groundbreaking character arc,
though blindfolded with labels of arrogance if so.
It’s pitch dark when she, my courage and wit, attempts to be at par with the smart men on the frontline
Pushed back behind the scene of excellence among the celebrated bare minimum. Because “what’s a woman have to prove but grace and poise?”
… Is what they threaten.
What disparity must this be to the murk of a hardworking woman who taps searching around her humble house,
At once praying she’s paid gold to see light?
Contrary to popular belief, diamonds aren’t a woman’s best friend.
I am but empty of means to find me a rich home
For I am paid dust, in return for my blood, sweat, and tears.
Soul for a dime
To be a commodity for an ailing society.
There, too, is a similarity to the melancholic dimness our loving mothers sprint through at the boom of her children’s cries.
Instincts caressed warmly with genuine care, never mind the dark that forbids her from the sight of her sons and daughters.
She will kiss your woes goodnight even with the weight of newfound womanhood on her compassionate chest.
There is pain in being a woman
And for a mother, vigor arises forth before the thought of it
Like earth on a constant mission to compete with the drastic cycles of humankind.
Oh, honest, who’s our favorite hero but our mothers?
Leave out not those shoved into the darkness
By false calls of those who fail to deem the essence of womanhood,
Worse than a God who forgives, and permits freedom to choose their fate.
One day, there will be a world that will see you for you
And, when evil crushes hope, run to where passion emulates
—To where dignity and humanity remain comprehended
—To where independence grows rhythmic with divinity
—To where our being a woman isn’t gauged a woeful fault
—To where womanhood is boundless, not held by the neck.
Maybe, there, true love glows ablaze!
There, our many forms of femininity bathe in glitter gleam
And our voices are electric! Sought fairly, and radiant!
Safe and unknowing of the familiar darkness;
Of tales bound by profound horror befriending grief.
Article: Marian Luisa Palo
Graphics: Ana Mae Gonzales
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