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Rated: E · Poetry · Writing · #2206063
Every heart has a keys.
There is a door to every heart.
The nurturer’s door has no lock,
But the woman who is afraid to show her true feelings,
Has not one, but two locks.

The door to my heart has two locks.
Some women’s doors have their locks on the outside,
But mine is on the inside.

What has placed them there?
Fear of ridicule and the unending beat of inequality.
Physical inequality? No.

There are chains around my locks,
Chains of bitterness, self-doubt, and worthlessness.

There is a rusty, old key for my door.
The key to hope.
Hope to unlock someday this prison which has held me captive for years.

I want to scream, to pour out my heart, to love myself for who I am,
But to do that, I would have to share my hopes, fears, and my wants.
Not at all ready for that commitment,
I shove the feelings into a cobwebbed corner.

Finding solace within myself,
I am content to stay behind my door of comfort.
Myself - alone.
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