And ain’t I just a woman?
Not stereotype, not stigma –
without suppressed energy
and abandoned passions,
just woman?
Ain’t I just…
Her, one who has no qualms,
no regrets,
just free
to be exactly who I am,
unequivocally?
Should I not align
with other stars of my ilk,
and should I not seek
all I wish to find?
Were it not for another [woman],
I wouldn’t have or be
a mother.
And damned if I seem selfish
for wanting my own piece of me…
What imminent danger is it
to own the peace of my mind,
to be happy to just be?
And just what if I embody
more?
More than just a carrier
of burdens, of knowledge,
of pain and pride,
wisdom and experience…?
What happens when I’m more than just?
As in, more than just
the transmitter
of secrets and signals
alike?
If assumption didn’t usurp
disagreement,
and love is more than
legacy’s afterbirth;
Then…
Ain’t I just a woman?
Kayfucius 