~

someone told me once,
poets are a dime a dozen;
yes, "we've chosen a craft
that a pittance pays"
and are most oft
recognized only
by the ashes
of the pages,
the words
we leave behind.

yet, i say write,
write today
like your life
depends on it...

for most of us
it doesn't,

but for all of us
our epilogue
just might!

so write!

Broken, shattered
Dreams unraveled
Yet new life springs
From empty matter

Bury me
That I might live
A damaged vessel
Is all I give

Bruised and battered
Full of sin
O wretched man
Abiding within

Bitterness watered
By the tears I've cried
Forgive me Lord
For I have tried

Arms outstretched
Mercy tender
For victory now
I must surrender

Heart pounding,
   Through the night
She knows the darkness well
     Been blinded by the light
And dragged through hell

Soul crushing,
   Through the days
She knows the pain never ends
     Been sliced open, fogged and dazed
And the voices in her head,
Have become her only friends

Head throbbing
   Through the dreams
She knows the sound of silence not
     Been left wounded, no one to hear her screams
And tortured by the presence of one single thought

Death knocking
   Through the silence
She knows he'll keep waiting, just like before
     Been failing at keeping up her defence
And this time, she simply opens the **door