I Am Not The Hands 

I am a super weird music teacher, and I did a unit in 2013 about Spoken Word Poetry, which I dearly love. In order to help my students understand and create, I wrote on of my own. It seemed only fair, tit for tat you know.

So I did, and I saved it to my phone because, I try to never lose that. As we are traveling home today, I thought I’d write a post in my notes, then upload it onto here once I had wifi again.

There my poem was, March 27, 2013 1:59PM. I must have written it right before the next day’s class:

I am not the hands of my mothe

holding tightly my shoulders against the wall of her pain.
The pills that she took to quiet the tormented tantrums of her mind came at the cost of many wars I was too weak to win.
And as I saw her blacken the eyes of the innocent,
I lashed out claws and teeth and words of outrage to only be

knocked down,
knocked out,
knocked into my own wall.

But I won’t grasp tightly to my children’s sholders and fight them in wars that end in tears;
because, they all do,
but I will gently guide them by the hand through a door in my own wall,
that I made,
to get them through to a place with

no walls,
no wars,

only clear eyes,
undimmed by their promise.

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