Georgia Cranko
...a beautifully volatile and disabled existence of raw humanity, art and activism...


[...uses of anger]

Even though my bones are constantly slammed against all the things I am not,
I can only feel the trembling reverberations…
Attempting to shatter my spine
(for you see, then they can break apart the self and other effortlessly).
The trembling makes me turn away from all the things I am,
I misplace my power, I misuse my identity,
And I forget which voice is mine.
I started with more, but “sorry” is what I’m left with.
I apologise, I know my chronic indecision is a luxury,
That the days I sleep away aren’t afforded to most.
But among all that passivity and confusion,
My words fall into the useless oceans of guilt,
Slipping on social legacies that steal lives, and that erase truths.
Raw agony deflates my lungs daily.
The grief colours my mind and soul,
These aren’t my stories to tell, my pain to feel,
And yet it is.
Turn up the morning radio,
Switch on the Television.
Listen to what is being said,
Then hear what isn’t.
My bones are being slammed against all the things I am not.
What shape of anger fits, what works?
What shape isn’t morphed by my constant apologies and sadness?
But perhaps anger hasn’t got a shape,
Maybe it’s a liquid that seeps into all the forgotten parts of myself,
Reminding me who I am, solidifying my truth,
Messy and contradictory, perhaps owning anger is what will make it powerful.
Georgia Cranko