i have many weights sleeping on my heart.
distraction brings no solace,
escapism not a change in scenery.
pain is a tree of replacement,
my suffering the blood of their fruit,
my flesh the main victim.
a collaboration of gnawing and burning truths
what else would make this life, a life
if not the wretched deal
of karmic strife?
when the wound passes through clear,
a hole in my chest,
the ringing of my ears,
only then must i talk to the pain.
to look the dark in the eye
and to find their hiding spots.
but until then,
i will think about what to say.