Wild Woman Wakes

I want to be so much more than you praise me to be.

No, I AM more than you praise me to be.

When Maya said, a woman. Phenomenally. That’s what she meant. 

A woman.

More than what you see. 

A woman. 

The seed of the world inside me. 

A woman. 

Who for too long was lost inside me. 

Me…

Me, the mother, when that was all I could be.

Nature, biology, instinct so strong that that’s all I could be. 

For a time.

A mother alone. All one. Alone. 

Inside, still a woman. 

Magnificent woman, reaching out praying for someone to see. 

Don’t forget about me. 

The Woman. The Wild. The Me. 

Even when mother is all the world sees. 

It’s the woman who, by light of full moon, 

Dreams. 

Dreams of shedding cloak and cloth and running. 

Free. 

Free from praise that she’s good at the things she should be. 

Free.

The Woman. The Wild. The Me. 

Don’t forget about me. 

It’s the woman who knows she can’t always be everything everyone needs her to be. 

SHE can just be. Just. Be. 

The Woman. Wild Woman. 

Don’t forget about me. 

With the whole world’s heart stitched high on her sleeve. 

And the weight of the world in her palm and her seed. 

Yes, mother indeed. 

Once a mother, always she leads. 

But to make a mother, it’s a woman you need. 

A lover, a dreamer, a dancer, a screamer. A maker of fire and passion and fever. 

A Woman. Wild Woman. 

Don’t forget about me. 

When mother, good mother, is all the world sees. 

Take the hand of the woman who waits inside me. 

Take the hand of the woman whose curves make you weak. 

Take the hand of the woman whose mind you can’t speak. 

Pull her out from the place where her fire can’t breath. 

Woman. Wild Woman. 

Don’t forget about me. 

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