Brave, but not really.

I am brave. Like in physical things that solicit brazen rebellion. But in the quiet things,...those whisperings of the soul that appear shrouded and foggy even to your own mind...I fail. I give in. To the definitive baritone of patriarchy. Every fucking time. That which pumps self doubt into my anatomy. Deepening my blue every passing minute.

Brave, but not really.

Musings

On days when I run

A race I am not meant to

The disappointment creeps up

With tugs I don’t relent to

I hold my head high

And try and justify

The wanderings of a soul

That can’t pin what it’s into