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Picking at Scabs and Naming Myself Surgeon
"Oh, yes. That hurt.
That hurt like a thousand slaps from a
Thousand teachers each. Like
Dragon claws dripping with bile and
Venom into male ego exposed. Ego
And pride and the nature of the bottles
Of labelled **** that you threw back,
Chickening out on cold, hard reality.
Friends and lovers lost, some
Some not. All gone with the wine. You
Could have written volumes by now.
Recorded legendary albums, created
Art like few others.
Yet, every millidrop of your
Blood screams for someone, or
Something rather, to take you
Away from all that's everyday.
Be it even war." Well,
I want peace, now.
Empty from facing all the same
Demons. Chainmail shredded,
Body worn on the inside from
Aqua Vitae and ale.
It hurts. It hurts like a thousand
Freshly sharpened pencils carving
Into the exposed areas of my love
For bad nostalgic habits and
Days after days with drink, laughter
The air of temporary excitement,
Picking at scabs and naming myself
Surgeon, letting the hearts of others
Pick up my tab when one of us
Those freshly sharpened pencils
Carving mantras to keep me alive
And wake me the Hell up, like:
"The people I
Need do not
Need me like
Christi Michaels MoonFlower
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