How do they expect me to name my desires, my dreams, my everything

How do they expect me to chose ten words or less to display my thoughts, my ideas

 

What’s the title, where’s the name?

The haunting questions chase me

Why must it have a name?

Can it not be nameless, can its passion not compensate for its name

 

No name no visibility they cry

Who am I to give, to pry

 

You are the mother of your work they say

Nay I am only the voice that speaks these words

I am no mother, no creator

I am a vessel that transports the thoughts of my imagination onto paper

 

These words are not solely mine

They are the words of my experience, of my mother, of my live, and of the Giver

 

Do not burden me with the task of naming these words

They are not my children,

They are my brethren

 

I can not name what is truly not mine

For all my words belong to that One

 

These words are not mine,

They are His

As one of His creations, everything I have, everything I am is His

 

Do not make me write a title,

Let the nameless words speak to the wind

Whispering their tale upon the leaves

Creating their own legacy

Their own name.