Finally a woman bends...Dark times envelope
A little household
With one man, his wife
And their little children.
Harsh words are exchanged
As the children grow up.
The adults find it unbearable
To stand the other's company.
A growl, a stomp
An enraged bang on the
Ancient expensive wooden desk.
Fury at its ultimate;
Anger at its peak.
A brewing storm breaks free now...
Threats, warnings, blackmail.
Backstabbing.
And the children growing up
Amidst the anguish
Amidst the pain
Amidst the anger
Amidst the fury.
There is a house to run,
The children need to grow,
Their health, is all that matters.
Education is necessary, so what?
At least they can read and write!
Utter chaos commotion in the house.
There is perhaps a better life ahead.
Yet, the woman bends.
She gets up and clears the mess created,
Picks up the broken, fallen pieces
Scattered all over the ground.
Makes sure that no glass piece,
Lies about so that
The children hurt themselves,
And yet she misses one...
Sadly, she misses one.
It pinches, it pains;
It reveals itself
Most hideously in the form
Of a deep cut,
Deep enough to reach the soul and scar it,
Give nightmares to the little children,
Mould them into the heartless beings
She always wanted to save them from.
"Whose fault is it, though?" asks someone.
"Of course, the woman's!" replies another.
"Why so?"
"She missed the piece of glass!
She did not perform her duties well!"
The other adult...
The dominant one,
Rejoiced by the orthodox,
Rather, the insignificant fools.
And, as always, the woman bends.
Gives in to the stick-straight pride of men,
That if bent, will break,
Lacking flexibility
Because every bit of it
Lies in the women who bend.
We continue to survive
We continue to stirve
All because, sometime,
Somewhere in the past,
When we were children,
Growing up...
A woman had finally bent,
To become out back bone,
Supporting us through
Think and thin of life,
With us through our
Darkest hours of need,
Not caring if she rested or not,
Just to ensure we were sound.
There is no amount of gratitude,
That may repay what she does for us...
A higher person, might just aim,
At being a better person
Than his present personality.
A lower person, might just write
A poem and forget about it later.
While the others, just watch and read
And pretend to admire and enjoy
The greatness equivalents in person and verses
While passiveness fills
Their hearts to the brim.
As the world continues to revolve,
As the sun continues to shine,
As the wind continues to blow,
As the sea continues its rise and fall,
A woman continues to bend,
For there are morales she needs to mend.
And thus, the woman finally bends.
A little household
With one man, his wife
And their little children.
Harsh words are exchanged
As the children grow up.
The adults find it unbearable
To stand the other's company.
A growl, a stomp
An enraged bang on the
Ancient expensive wooden desk.
Fury at its ultimate;
Anger at its peak.
A brewing storm breaks free now...
Threats, warnings, blackmail.
Backstabbing.
And the children growing up
Amidst the anguish
Amidst the pain
Amidst the anger
Amidst the fury.
There is a house to run,
The children need to grow,
Their health, is all that matters.
Education is necessary, so what?
At least they can read and write!
Utter chaos commotion in the house.
There is perhaps a better life ahead.
Yet, the woman bends.
She gets up and clears the mess created,
Picks up the broken, fallen pieces
Scattered all over the ground.
Makes sure that no glass piece,
Lies about so that
The children hurt themselves,
And yet she misses one...
Sadly, she misses one.
It pinches, it pains;
It reveals itself
Most hideously in the form
Of a deep cut,
Deep enough to reach the soul and scar it,
Give nightmares to the little children,
Mould them into the heartless beings
She always wanted to save them from.
"Whose fault is it, though?" asks someone.
"Of course, the woman's!" replies another.
"Why so?"
"She missed the piece of glass!
She did not perform her duties well!"
The other adult...
The dominant one,
Rejoiced by the orthodox,
Rather, the insignificant fools.
And, as always, the woman bends.
Gives in to the stick-straight pride of men,
That if bent, will break,
Lacking flexibility
Because every bit of it
Lies in the women who bend.
We continue to survive
We continue to stirve
All because, sometime,
Somewhere in the past,
When we were children,
Growing up...
A woman had finally bent,
To become out back bone,
Supporting us through
Think and thin of life,
With us through our
Darkest hours of need,
Not caring if she rested or not,
Just to ensure we were sound.
There is no amount of gratitude,
That may repay what she does for us...
A higher person, might just aim,
At being a better person
Than his present personality.
A lower person, might just write
A poem and forget about it later.
While the others, just watch and read
And pretend to admire and enjoy
The greatness equivalents in person and verses
While passiveness fills
Their hearts to the brim.
As the world continues to revolve,
As the sun continues to shine,
As the wind continues to blow,
As the sea continues its rise and fall,
A woman continues to bend,
For there are morales she needs to mend.
And thus, the woman finally bends.
-Me
