The Rape of a Soul
Wasn’t much to care about.
‘Cept what’s for dinner and why is bedtime so early?
She was young and full of life.
Her passion: her love for music.
Endless. Timeless. Songs.
…The isolation of a native village where unnecessary has no place.
…The small quaintness of a country town where things are kept simple on the surface and the complicated logistics are… well, there ain’t no need to talk about that.
…The industrious and vibrant metropolis where what you do ain’t none of my concern; as poverty and greed shake hands before supper.
No matter the genre,
She and it shared a love affair — in rhythm.
“Tis tis tah tah tah ta tu tah do doop de doop de doo”
If you were ever around long you knew of:
Mother’s Classical Flow
Her father’s pair of patent leather gospel shoes…
“You can always make them babies look new if you shine umm long enough.”
None of them ever reflected her personality.
When her grandmother lost her words she had her song as she bobbed her head, patted her knee, and tapped her toes.
Man, that musta been some good music that night!
Yet totally impromptu,
“Sometimes looking the part is what matters most.”
She danced Music’s words…
…Bent his emotion…
…Twirled through his whirlpool of notes.
One day she was home alone,
“Just cause you gotta mother don’t mean you ain’t motherless.”
Searching for the perfect song to
…Embrace …Her mood.
After a long day of …And just plain monotones…
…She discovered something unfamiliar.
Commanding as a dictator!
A tyrannical beat—chaotic!
As it rang out she began to move sporadically.
Nothing like the sway, snap, and clap the choir did Sunday.
The more she attempted to reach for her classical roots…
…Cling to the jazz
…Call to the blues
…Look to the faith in her father’s gospel shoes…
The further it moved from her grasp.
“Just cause you gotta father don’t mean you ain’t fatherless.”
She exhausted all efforts before finally paying attention,
Her movement to this new poison was indeed patterned.
…The one thing that previously bored her the most.
Like one embarking on a gold miner’s journey,
She began to sift through to its core.
Or rather, it began to sift her.
“Look at that little girl twerking! Her mama ‘nem need an ol fashion ass whoopin’!”
Now on the infectious words being waled.
If music is life, then…
Oh, did I mention that she was once young and full—
…Yet, now her face is full of random darkness.
If music is life, then this is…
A strong hold.
And this demon?
…Pleasured itself by traveling in one ear and out the other…
Clinging to whatever it touched.
Her defense was weakened.
Her grandmother’s jazzy jazz had taught her to…
Listen for the -Tempo,
Dance to her own tune,
…Even when others can’t hear it.
Her grandfather’s bellowing blues had taught her to…
Dissect things carefully.
Behind every sad song was the experience—of a lifetime.
It is truly better to have loved and lost.
Her mother’s classical, whimsical flow helped her to…
Recognize the traditional.
Freedom lies in keeping an open mind.
Always pay special attention to your senses.
But not least,
Her father’s patent leather gospel shoes taught her that…
Selfless actions are met with opposition.
Selfish actions yield a harvest seen a generation later.
And one single self can get in the way of great synergistic victories.
…with no one there to prevent the horrific penetration of her naïve soul…
Whimsical gospel shoes…
Of empathy are no longer worn.
…This debilitating thing called gangsta rap became her life.
The Rape of a Soul
Mary Clayton is a native Texan who has a passion to share her journey and struggles in life through the written word. She is the single mother or three challenging teen boys and the acting mother of one more who she calls her own. Sharing her writing with others is a rather new venture in life, but one she is looking forward to. Feel free to contact her with any thoughts you may have on her work. She values and welcomes any feedback a reader may have. Maryclayton64@gmail.com