When Small Men Fall

Small men will fall,

short of their expectations.

Their onset of pride,

brewing, like the storm in their eyes.

Lies they will spout,

out of spiteful, little mouths.

Small men will break,

under the pressure they seek.

When their greed is uncovered,

smothered in apathetic promises,

concocted with spiteful little minds.

 

Small men will fade,

like the shadows in the night,

like thunder come sunlight.

No light-

-ning shall transpire-

here, where smoke filled mouths will never tire.

 

Small men, you will fall

like autumn leaves when November breaks.

Lest you let your pride be what winter takes,

And shake the dust off long closed eyes.

For a wiseman, reborn in Spring,

Will watch in awe,

As women rise.

-N.B.

 

 

Outside

Outside I am:

Watching as they smile,

Listening as they laugh,

Sitting as they dance.

Looking away when they look back,

Glass walls holds me hostage.

But inside, I:

Press my face up to the view,

Of the people I once knew,

All reasons aside,

Let history slide,

Away from this room,

Away from this crowd,

Of blood like mine.

Wishing I was someone else,

Someone forgiven,

Someone brave,

Someone, unafraid,

Of wearing the dress,

Despite your brothers unsolicited shame.

Of dancing a mess,

Despite your body unwilling to be anything but tame.

For love of fun,

For connections and bonds,

For a string of familiarity I could never knit,

For a friendship spark from a candle never lit.

I sit here wishing, hoping, dreaming,

Of a life where I was in,

With those whom I love.

Of a life where I was one

With the laughter around me.

But instead I am me,

Solo girl on this whirlwind ride.

Face pressed against the glass,

Looking in, from the outside.

-N.B.

I Am The Troll

Please do not tell me I am not who I am,

Though my worth has dwindled

From the girl I have been.

Heavy winds free my soul,

Sweep me up into your storm.

Self awareness formed this bridge,

And now I pay the toll.

To know oneself truly,

Cuts deep into shallow skin,

Fresh blood pools in waves,

Crashing and burning deep within.

Who am I, I now ask,

The naysayer who tore me in half,

The disbeliever who crushed my spirit,

The false friend who would not hear it.

Those around me,

Who pocket my blame,

In a coat, on a rainy day,

Disappear behind glass windows

Of the house I call my home.

In my home, which I call safe.

Spiteful souls, there are none.

But as a I gaze into the mirror,

And look upon my broken face,

I see the truth reflecting back,

Behind the barrel of a gun.

-N.B.