i.
pluck the aching out of my ribs — one by one
as though they were teeth that had sunk —
latched themselves onto these bones,
until it is but a pile of bite marks,
a pile of mildewed flowers —
festering like sins, like punishment.
pluck each bruising bone,
some things belong to my chest.
some, to firelight.

ii.
pluck a rib,
make the sweetest, purest, brand new woman —
all lace girdle and nectarine lips,
stepping out of the outskirts of my skin
as i watch from the other side of an exit wound — the inner side.
maybe in another life, that can be me.

thou shalt not covet.

i close the window.
i zip the skin.

iii.
tonight, i kneel in a confessional —
screaming away all banal sorrows,
screaming away all banal sins.

pull the aching out of my ribs —
it's in its rawest just before the dawn.
pull the aching out of my ribs.

a corrupted sight
for awakened flowers. ringing church bells. hummingbirds.
oh, a corrupted sight.
and mornings will hear its aftermath.

Listen.
Can you hear the world
struggling for its breath?
Can you feel its tears
rushing through your lungs?
Do you share its fears?

Lend your breath to the world.
Fill its lungs with raging hope
and see serenity shining through
the eye of the storm.

Remember,
no storm’s meant to last.
This one too is here to upset,
to question,
to teach,
and shall eventually pass.

To the person I see when I look at the mirror,
You are all I had when I felt lonely in a hustling
and bustling crowd, swimming in cold waters.
We have ebbed and flowed, sailing smoothly at times
and through raging storms sometimes that have
made us one hell of an ugly shipwreck.

To the person I see when I look at the mirror,
You are all I have to fight every single day that comes
with a hundred surprises and a thousand plans.
We will get to the other side of the shore and
explore all that the world has to offer, we will go to
the places where the sun shines the brightest, I promise.

To the person I see when I look at the mirror,
You are all I needed when I had a blurry vision
and was tripping over my own thoughts.
We worked on ourselves for countless hours.
You took me into your arms, hushed my mind
and said everything is going to be fine.

To the person I see when I look at the mirror,
You are all I need to stand tall and go about this
life that seems to have a lot of things to teach me.
We will grow and be better than what we
were yesterday; learning constantly, never repeating
our mistakes but making brand new ones everyday, I promise.

To the person I see when I look at the mirror,
You are all that was there in my success and failure
to tell me that I am much more than this.
We doubted our potential and didn’t believe in
our voice, maybe we didn’t have a voice and maybe
we still don’t have one but we never stopped looking for it.

To the person I see when I look at the mirror,
you are all that I will ever have till I breathe my last
and I couldn’t have asked for more, thank you, best friend.
What if we don’t have enough time left on this earth?
Then listen to me, today you are here, you are alive, you are strong,
you are loved, you are capable, you are my miracle and that is enough.
You are enough, I promise.

Through voracious eyes devotees, peruse writings, clever literature all styled to thoughtful poetic ways
eloquently, exposing wounds of body and soul, discovered distrust, anger much regret, sadly even fear,
thereto shortcomings in life, of people, their actions, loves and lies promulgated in illuminating phrase.
Technology endows contributors with outlets for venting suchlike occasions using artistry is here.

Passionate poignant experiences most well written, some not are duly shared to attracted communal eyes.
declarations of 'I have cared so much I'm wounded mortally', some bask in lost or unrequited loves last kiss,
several employ inner strength 'whatever happened, I don't care, I'm resilient, I survive', shared with poetic pride
concise verses rework obvious reminders, may motivate suggestion that opportunity shouldn't be missed.

Modest words abundantly profound begin remarks that reassures, with the - I'm here for yous'- symbolic embrace,
in support it is written, 'I know what you mean' and from a great distance - empathise, but I have little to say.
Health issues aren't fixed by artistic pennings, only face to face professional advice forms the strongest base,
Writings from the poetic inner self  may become positive steps, for futures not, staring in depressions face.

Much is written with sensitivity oft-times is judged by content, overlooked is why and how it is composed.
For instance suicide  educes fear however. dubiety invites, is it fiction or truly despair?
Writing as an art observes, describes, creates imagery, of sadness and joy, escapism, fictional or no.
Poetic creators who web-wide commune through stories, thoughts, secrets, ideas, dreams, let the poetry be shared .




Poetry www    Michael C Crowder 12th  January 2019 @scorsby