Sometimes,
we pick the scabs
of old scars,
pushdown
on the brown
and bluish bruise
that brands us
just to get in touch
with what
made us
who we are.

Sometimes,
we go too far
or stop just short of
where we were sort of
supposed to go
to show those who know
similar scars.

Sometimes,
we break ourselves,
crack our backs
on a torture rack
that we brought back
from the dirt an ash
of burnt out sorrows.

Why,
behave that way,
shaving days of pain
away
just to bring them
back in again?

I cannot say for certain.
I am only working
with what I got,
cutting the edges
taking bets on
what I lost
in exchange for
the chance to be
a boon to humanity,
king soother
with a little blasphemy,
witty repeater
of past artistry
as I string together
the broken chords
that still tether
struggling hearts
to the similar parts
of each other.