The Coveter of Laurels: A Poem

You abandoned me beneath a barren tree.

You left me without words, without direction.

And I waded through desertlands and valleys,

Sullied and exhausted, trying to follow and find

My own voice that you suppressed with the echoes

Of yours.


And when I found it and started to blossom

On my own, without the pseudo comfort of your body

And home, you reappeared, greedy and alarmed, and

You tried to reap my laurels, clutch them, tear them off

My head, my name, and baptise them anew, establish them

As your own, suddenly I became your daughter.


Suddenly you claimed your territory, suddenly you displayed, not felt,

A sense of pride and projected it to the outside world and the fools

Believed you, all my hard work was your merit, by association.


Suddenly you wanted to be associated with me. Suddenly you

Called yourself my father. And everybody congratulated you

For my accomplishments, for what you moulded, and how,

Nobody ever asked questions, dug deeper, why we didn’t speak

The same language, nothing.


They just believed everything you said.

You never showed up for anything. For me. When I had nothing

You left me. When I did everything I could to have something

You would step right in and try to take it all away from me.

You couldn’t stand it. You wanted me deserted and barren.


But, father, I would grow so high that you would

Never be able to reach the crown of the tree that I planted myself.

woman wearing black long sleeved shirt near trees
Photo by George Shervashidze on

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