Held down by an unseen fist
suffocated and oppressed
I chose to make an effort
a defense, however lame
I dragged myself out,
hair clipped and lip-sticked,
willing joy to come.
When it doesn’t I scream -
my throat so scratched
that swallowing lends to retching.
These screams are real
not silent, not inner.
But they only empower my oppressor.
No, I must quietly conquer.
I must try again.
To my feet and forward -
force a smile, join in.
I gain figurative ground
until a literal boot
connects with my nose,
pain shooting up my brain
to my spirit cell.
So at last, I am still prisoner
to the unseen push.
(c) Tasha Chinnock 2007
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