ripped out
ripped out?
no, crushed
stomped on, left in place
still beating but out of time with life
fighting against the weight left behind
when they’d had enough and trashed the rest and you’re buried in the pile
waiting for another need to surface.
there’s no jump start,
no rhythm boost to make you beat in time again
with life that spills on along
poured from heaven on the happy ones
the fortunate ones
the companions.
time heals all wounds
and wounds all heels.
no vengeance in that
when knowing it uncovers a bruise, forgotten, a last piece un-plumped,
un-recovered.
Love fill it for me.

If rocks could fall like water
Then we would all be far less bruised
As our stones, our burdens, would roll off
Or else absorb into our skin
If only to be processed out again
We would not carry the visible marks
Of an unkind world
And would stay outwardly placid
And inwardly concealed  
But perhaps then the danger would lie
In the poisoning of our skin
As we absorb the lies and pain
Perhaps while we would cease
To present our story
Our nightmares would appear through touch
As our skin would become toxic from pain
And would burn all it contacted
And so easy it would be then
To isolate in desolate corners
So we could not be harmed --
So we could do no harm

-.-.-

So much better it is
To be to be bruised
Rather than to be alone

The path long and strenuos
My steps falter and ebb

Ailing, my heart is
Hankering to be set free
Lost and battered to the demon in me
A sulky weary being hides
Praying for divinity

of bruised skin
and tear-filled eyes,
of empty palms
and tired smiles

of raging waves
and endless storms
of aching heart,
a rose with thorns

of burning heat
from walls to fist
with ash-filled lungs
and fractured ribs

I cannot breathe;
it's suffocation
I cannot live;
this is depression

Your poems remind me . . .

of the scripts the priests did write
points of light among Dark Ages
illuminated by stark events
the gold and red of the best
written ever painfully
the victors and heros
teaching now
their keen advice
with elegant prose
spun well enough to entice
the wise
their words verified
by the baring of
their bruised and broken souls