Letting it out

This week I have found that every time I have sat down to write a story, I've written a poem instead. I think that the fundamental reason why poems are written comes from a need to express something. So I am for the want of a better phrase 'letting it out.'

Revealed

If I was a tree,
my moods would
make a colourful display.
You could hold
my feelings in your
hand. They would
be yours to inspect
or cast aside.
Until at last
I would stand bare
no place for
secrets, scars on show,
I would be revealed.


The Gift

I can feel the small
bones in your hands,
smell the scent of
your skin in the nap
of your necks.
The way you have
grown is a blur,
a sweet pain.
You have brought me
joy, sorrow, love
and pride. Emotions
which stripped me raw,
left me exposed.
Once your hearts
fluttered inside,
you were protected.
What gift can
I give to you
my daughters?
I can allow you
to do things for
yourselves. Let
you you find
your own strengths.
Experience life
on your terms and
believe in yourself.