My Father has always told me not to trust my feelings
feelings don’t make sense, he would grumble
smelling of booze and old cigarettes.
His words resonate.
they don’t make sense
Figments of my imagination,
But these feelings,
although not tangible
They plead to be heard
bury themselves in depths of my mind,
They scream to be heard,
to be validated.
Unnoticed they turn to anger
The tip of my pin flutters around the page,
breathing positive life into those feelings.
They come to the light and open themselves up to their truth.
And in this act, She is healed.