I don’t see a broken woman anymore
I’m not the wreck I thought myself before
Yes, I hold the crap I’ve kept
I greet the fears I’ve always met
My heart still aches from shrapnel wounds
Still blinded by those darn typhoons
I wonder still where time has flown
Why seeds of doubt have stubbornly grown
But life stirs up the shit I hid
Those frets, they’re living, not stains to rid
I’ll loosen grip through daily strains
Nor question tears that ease my pains
I’m not shattered glass upon the floor
I am not a broken woman anymore
Crumbs in my belly button 
Your poem carried me right through to the end, almost. The only line threw me out of your carefully crafted rhythm was “Those frets, they’re living, not stains to rid,” mostly because the sentence is a little overwrought compared to the rest of the lines. I really like the line and would like to see it incorporated a little more smoothly. I think it’s just the extra syllable in the line that does it.
You’ve got some close-to-cliche stuff here, the “seeds of doubt” and stuff like that. Not overly off-putting, but I’d definitely be more involved with your poem if you rendered your own, unique take on “seeds of doubt.”
The story your poem tells is strong 🙂
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Harry, thank you! It’s good to get some constructive feedback. I agree with you on both parts and have been feeling a little detached from the process. This is showing in my resent works and your comment has made me think. Lately I have been leaning on the cliches, laziness I guess. Unique is the right word – I’ve been scraping the surface, skimming over my unique. I really appreciate the time you’ve taken to read and comment, it’s been a great help, thank you.
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No problem, Emily. Good luck with your writing, you’ve got a great sense of rhythm. Best to keep plugging away at it. Maybe try some new writing methods? Good luck, and keep it up!
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Thank you so much! I think I will try something new for a bit, see how that flows. Thanks for connecting 🙂
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