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Grit
I carry the bowed body of a woman long grown weary,
But there is steel in these eyes,
And a stubbornness born of scorn and ridicule,
I am on my knees,
I am scorned and unworthy,
Yet there is grit in my fists and a fire in my soul,
I am a lonely woman,
But I would sooner cut off my hands than hold onto unwilling people,
I am a foolish woman,
But I would rather be called a fool rather than cruel,
Unworthy and alone as I am,
There is still a little faith left, and,
I have learned to love myself through it all,
With the unwavering sky above my head,
And a billion more stories inked in my bones,
I have learned to simply be,
A woman determined to live and love,
Broken as I am,
I am still whole,
And I carry the scarred body of a survivor.
© Silvy Abraham
But there is steel in these eyes,
And a stubbornness born of scorn and ridicule,
I am on my knees,
I am scorned and unworthy,
Yet there is grit in my fists and a fire in my soul,
I am a lonely woman,
But I would sooner cut off my hands than hold onto unwilling people,
I am a foolish woman,
But I would rather be called a fool rather than cruel,
Unworthy and alone as I am,
There is still a little faith left, and,
I have learned to love myself through it all,
With the unwavering sky above my head,
And a billion more stories inked in my bones,
I have learned to simply be,
A woman determined to live and love,
Broken as I am,
I am still whole,
And I carry the scarred body of a survivor.
© Silvy Abraham
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