My White Canvas

Please, stop.

I do not want to listen anymore!

Every day,

I am the topic of their discussion.

I am fat, so I am not beautiful.

I am a woman, so I am not as smart as a man.

Every day,

I am worthless because I was born a daughter.

I am stupid because I did not get into an Ivy League College.

I am a victim of their constant verbal abuse,

So I cower in fear.

I want to go somewhere,

A place where I know is safe and free,

Of such demeaning characterizations.

That place is home.

But home is not perfect.

Home is quiet.

There is no one,

No one there to listen.

Home is empty,

Except for a shelf of composition books.

But that is where it all began,

On a white sheet of lined paper.

I began to write because

Writing is the only way I know how,

To inform others my side of the story.

Writing is the only way I know how,

To control my feelings of rage and distraught.

I want someone to understand me.

I want someone to relate to me. 

I do not want sympathy, no.

I just desperately want someone to read between the lines,

And see through my facade. 

I want someone to know my story.

But I do not want just anyone.

That is why I write the poetry that I do.

Poetry is ambiguous.

Someone can interpret my objective,

Into something different than what I intended.

I just want a deep connection with someone.

And poetry is my connection to others.

It is my white canvas.