“Is my verse alive?”

If men seek validation women are starved for it.
The kitchen witch writing spells at the old worn table 
The one that has survived generations.
Spells written in soft ink
Of her hearts silent ache, to be seen, to be known.

Chasing after something she won’t ever own.
In this world built on a lie.
Same as it ever was.

Never good enough.
Survive the grist mill.

This heart ache is a silly female indulgence with no utility.
It is not the pragmatism that feeds people,
It is a fumbling preoccupation.

Words, words, spill out.
Words and rhythm.
Words and rhyme.

And if I had a crush and would ask him if it was enough
Are these words dribbled backwards and upside down
The ones aye thoughtfully expound,
Enough to conjure an emotion?
Are they enough to be heard.
Or should I just whisper then softly, sir?

What is the difference between you and I?
Oh, I would have never wanted what you had.