Which shall shatter first?
My hopes and dreams?
Or the glass ceiling?
I see my future.
But how do I break through,
When I’m on the bottom, looking up?
By some miracle, I shatter the ceiling.
I crawl up, bloodied hands and knees,
To be greeted with, “What are you doing here?”
The ceiling is gone,
But the hearts and minds won’t change.
Waiting out attrition I pull up others,
Through the shattered ceiling.
The balance of power
Swings into a flat line.
I shatter the ceiling,
Not my hopes and dreams.
“I write because there are words inside me that need to get out. And I’m the only one who can free them from my mind, releasing them to the wild, to sow ideas in other gardens.” – the poet