I don't know what my voice sounds like.
It is a chameleon
Of inferiority and insecurity,
Blame and mistrust.
It is tiny and squeaky and hurts my throat.
My voice has no breath behind it:
The intention is sucked in,
Not blown out.
My voice is unpredictable:
It scares me.
My voice is fitting in with
You, you and you.
It is strict control, serious,
Blackness and despair;
Grief and years of tears.
My voice is hiding,
Unable to speak.
Frustration and temptation.
A riddle to be solved - or not.
Perhaps it is a mystery!
A wonder of imagination,
Flights of experimentation,
A path of exploration
Asking Who - Am - I?
My voice is real and strong,
Powerful and true,
Deep as my core,
Light as hair.
My voice is an expression
Of who I am right now
Right now and right now,
Changing with me to suit
My mood, not you.
Yes hell can come out of my voice
But so can heaven:
Delight, love and laughter
Are mine for the speaking.
My voice is my passion,
Beliefs, values and trust:
Trust I offer up with each word.
It is song, deliciousness,
The whisperings of intimacy.
It is the roar of honesty
To stand back, get out,
No no NO!
Or a soft invitation:
Welcome.
Yes.
My voice is alive
With new found ways of being;
It is deeply precious.
My voice is who I am:
Changeable.
