Fluttering.
Stuttering.
Beating.
My wings strike the cage.
I fight.
Hard.
Against the entrapment
of my own making.
Why do I do this?
Fight for nothing.
Fight against an
immovable force.
I stop.
Give up.
What's the point?
Fatigue becomes
Concrete.
Done.
The fight ends.
The cage door opens.
But I can't move.
The irony.
Who Am I?
- Coal Miner's Granddaughter
- I am the 40-ish granddaughter of Frank (see header), a fiddle-playing coal miner from West Virginia. I was born and raised in said state and have lived in Georgia since 1994. I have a wonderful husband, three beautiful kids, one cranky cat, and one anxiety-ridden dog.
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Confessions of a Coal Miner's Granddaughter by Coal Miner's Granddaughter is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 United States License.
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9 comments:
Love it. Nice piece.
I feel your pain. I'm in the cage next door.
this was wonderful.
xoxo
So, you're up for parole soon?
I always knew you were a loony bird. :P
(In all seriousness, I totally relate to this. )
LOVE this - and totally can relate.
We all have our cages - it's really a question of whether or not the cage is big enough.
I hope this reflects the past and not the present. Hugs either way.
Beautifully done. I like it a lot. I wish you didn't know such pain so you could write so eloquently about it.
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