The healing process starts with the wound,
A broken bone,
A fractured piece of scaffolding.
There might be something in the way,
Distracting from the injury.
If you fall backwards,
Hit your head and land on your wrist,
The pain of your head is most prevalent.
So it gets iced,
Immediately it feels better.
But after icing it too many times,
It stops hurting the way it did,
You start to notice the pain in your wrist.
That doesn’t go away when you ice it,
Even if you try to ignore it, it’s in-ignorable.
Now that the smaller pain of your head is gone,
You start to notice why something still aches,
The real wound is a broken wrist.
So you get a brace,
You tell a doctor what’s wrong,
They give you something to make getting rid of the pain,
A little easier.
You wear the brace for a while,
Until you get used to hurting with the brace,
But you still don’t like it.
So instead of letting it happen,
You adjust the Velcro,
Making the brace tighter to help you better.
Until the doctor decides you don’t need it anymore,
You’ve healed.
But you’re still sore,
It’s going to ache at first.
When what you’ve missed because of it sinks in,
But people point out how you’re happier.
Then you realize,
It got better,
By taking away the injury,
You healed.

Music from another time
Begins to fill my ears,
And my mind gets flooded
With memories of then.

Memories of happiness,
Warm like a sunny day in April;
Memories of love,
Ever-consuming and euphoric;
Memories of agony,
Hollow lies and hollow heart;
Memories of confusion,
Fog flooding my mind at all times.

But there is one memory that stands out more than the others:
The memory of my death.
How I slowly lost my spark,
And was too aware of the cold.
How I slowly lost all meaning,
And just wished for an end that felt real.
How I slowly lost myself,
And I wasn’t sure if I was worth knowing anymore.
How I slowly died,
And I didn't even realize until I built myself up again.

I didn't die with a last breath.
I could feel my lungs inhale and exhale the air.
I didn't die knowing I was dying.
I thought I was getting better.
I didn't die, in my head —
I kept moving, too fast to notice.
But I died in my memories.
And realized only now.

But I was born again.
I'm not writing from my grave,
I'm writing from my pedestal.
Like a statue rising from cold stone,
I carved myself into someone new.
Painful, like sculpting pieces of myself out
From the block of marble I'm working on.
Slow, because I only have my own hands
And no other tools to work.
Strong, like the quartz
I chose to use and cherish.
Elegant, like the lines and curves
That I'm chiselling.

I died.
And when I tried living again,
I got killed.
But I already died twice.
This time, I'll grow wings
And be the strong phoenix,
Returning from the ashes.

Admire them from afar,
Like the beautiful constellation they are.
You want to feel them close,
But is it worth it?

Your eyes will melt,
And your skin will burn.
You will turn into dust,
While they keep on shining and sinning
With their mere existence.

Is the cost of turning into ashes worth it,
Just to feel them close for a brief moment?
Where their brightness makes your irises explode,
And the heat makes your soul melt?

Is it all worth it,
Knowing it will end you and erase your timeline,
While this is just another fleeting moment
In the endless light of their life?

Occasionally I struggle to write,
Eyes glazed over late at night,
Drinking ink instead of ****** wine,
Breathing in antique paper smoke.
Chewing on pen tips,
One slips, I cut my gum,
Tell the dentist it's a canker sore.

My soul whines for true release,
For me to free myself from the foolish games we play,
But instead, me and Spotify play the polo,
The Gentleman's shuffling game.
So the night wears on,
I udder not a single yawn,
Lost in dark times,
People say they're scared for me.

I don't know how to end a story, don't see when the plot has died
Especially when it's a good scene, and the mood is always just right
The sun is setting- there's lovers on the beach, the future stands before them with nothing out of reach
Maybe that's not in the cards they pulled, I should let the story line fade out, but that makes me physically ill,
"They belong together" I shout-
And I'll stall the scene with every breathe, hoping hope can out-write loves death