Change happens when the pain of staying the same is greater than the pain of change.

MY REVOLUTION

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I protest, with a voice both strong and clear,

For you’ve placed me in a box, a writer’s sphere.

But before the pen, I’ve journeyed far and wide,

A seeker of the soul, with body as my guide.

From childhood’s dawn to this very day,

« Know Thyself, » I hear the ancients say.

Not Greek or Egyptian by mere chance or fate,

I carry history’s weight, a heavy, noble state.

Six years I’ve shared my path, yet still I roam,

A woman’s journey back to self, to home.

With each cycle’s turn, I find my way,

A rhythm that guides me, come what may.

To the women who endure, who feel the strife,

See not a curse, but the pulse of life.

Your PMS, your pain, your deepest moan,

Are the echoes of your truth, the seeds you’ve sown.

Month by month, tune in, don’t shy away,

Even when the darkness follows day.

Sit with your soul, let the silence speak,

Meditate, reflect, on the answers you seek.

Break through the lies, the chains of old,

Don’t bow to the systems, don’t be controlled.

Let your body’s cry be a song, not shame,

There’s wisdom in your womb, a sacred flame.

Within you lies the infinite, the end, the start,

The essence of your being, the map of your heart.

The cycles, the pain, the joy, the tears,

They connect you to Earth, to your ancestors’ years.

Imagine a world where sisters unite,

In a matriarch’s embrace, we find our light.

In those hard times, we’d rise, we’d heal,

Awakening to the truth only we can feel.

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DISAPPEAR TO CREATE

I must vanish to write,

step softly into shadows where no one seeks, a hermit in the hollows of my mind, where thoughts breathe louder than voices and silence carries the weight of storms

Here, the mirror waits, not of glass but of memory, reflecting every scar, every joy, demanding I see what I have tried to hide, a relentless inventory of my life, held captive by the truths I cannot escape

It is not pen to page, not yet. It is first the digging, the descent, through years of laughter, years of ache, unfolding like brittle leaves pressed in forgotten books

This is triple reflection: the self I was, the self I am, the self I dare to imagine

There is despair in the emptiness of beginnings, in pages that stare blankly back, mocking my every hesitation. And then, the other despair:

The torrent of too much, words spilling faster than I can catch them, ideas flooding my trembling hands

I dance alone to shake the weight, bend my body to the shape of surrender, stretch my soul in yoga’s quiet defiance

Tears fall unbidden, sometimes for the beauty of a sentence, sometimes for its brutal demand

Distractions are a thief with clever hands,I have let them take too much

Now, I lock the door, turn from the world, and give myself to the wilderness of thoughtIt is here I build, alone but not lonely, confronting the raw materials of my existence

And when the words are forged and shaped ,I will return, offering the world not perfection, but truth: the unvarnished gift of my soul, crafted in silence, born of fire.