sewing the open wounds shut
hurts just as much
as the wounds themselves

i don’t know,
but there just aren’t any words for this, are there?

days later
and i still scramble for the right things to say,
as if any poetry could make this easier, more okay.
(it doesn’t work. i give up soon enough.)
(there is no poetry for this.)

i want to let time take my hand,
wash away the horror of what america has done;
i let angry music blare loud in my ears before i realize—

no. this is not something i can drown out.
this was not anything time would heal.
this was never something we could have just ignored, see?

you cannot let a sickness grow
call it healing while it festers.
you cannot watch a burning building
and think the fire will put itself out.
you must not leave a infected wound out and open
and just wait for the blood to stop on its own.

(it’s already infected. it hurts enough already.)
(it will scar.)

no. you have to act. you have to say:
this is not normal.
we cannot live with smoke around us,
with open wounds—
we cannot live if we are dying.

you cannot succumb. you cannot think of dying yet.
you have to say: i am alive. i will not die.
not while i am needed,
not while i can help.

take a breath. let the image sink before you.
stare at it, this open wound;
but then you must fight the sickness.

Finally silence as the knife hits the floor, you scream in terror "what're you smiling for?!"
My vision is blurred and the room starts to fade, as I think of my life and the mess I have made.
They told me not to trust you cuz you'd **** me straight to hell, they made me do things I had to promise not to tell.
They were always there whispering in my head, but they will be gone now for I will soon be dead.
You were always hiding things and sneaking from place to place, but you were trying to get me the help that I was afraid to face..
"But that can't be right you were poisoning us!" The voices grow louder as they furiously cuss..
"You little **** you tried to **** me we don't deserve this!" i mean.. think of all the fun you're going to miss..
All those games we played like hide the ****** corpse.. until we fought when you told me I have no remorse.
The poison though.. was the pills in my drink, You tried to tell me they were prescribed by my shrink.
But reality hits, this is really the end, all this time they said it was just pretend.
The voices fade as you stand there in shock, the only sound made is the tic of the clock.
I thought it was you but MY hand dropped the blade, this is by far the worst game I've ever played...
My memory was clouded but now I can see...
I thought you were crazy but the crazy one's me.

Graceless
You are graceless
She is wingless, like you
Only yours were honorary
Yours she gave to you, so generous
Hers you tore from her
Shoulder blades,
Pulled a feather from every pore
A petal every time
You asked whether or not
She had been in love with you

She was
And she wishes
You were missing the same pieces
That were taken from her
But at the same time
She couldn't hurt a fly
Not on purpose
Nor without consideration
Nor without consequence



Because she knows better than to do what you did.

You cut her
Yet your own blood
Doesn't run with guilt.

You're Graceless
Selfish

Yet not as Graceless
As the young woman
Whom you laid on a metal slab,
Dissected,
And sewed back together
With romantic detachment

You claimed her,
You cut her,
You maimed her,

Don't trivialize her anger
She deserves to feel something again
Let her fly,
Let her fly
*******,

She doesn't  want her family to watch her die

Inside of her is a poem that any paper can't handle

She grabbed a pen
With an ink that as lonely as the darkest hue

She cries but words heals
Words heals her wounds.
Words heals all the pain

But in the end,
She's writing for someone
Who don't care.

She rose from deep within,
Like a phoenix out from the ashes,
Body covered with streaks of wounds,
New and aged with no discrimination.

She sprung life out of none,
Defying of what nature set the rules upon,
She made it a daily routine,
But none should know herself within.

Alone in her nest,
Of where she came,
Her seated heart rests in a battered ribs,
Like a dying bird with a rusted cage.


-HIY

But an apology flies
beyond yourself
to land on those places
you never knew you had hurt;
the thread that holds a scar together;
it speaks the language
only wounds and time know
and offers a sweet prose;
- Sorry.

An apology has wings: a white moth
of truth: it flies from the quicksand grave
of self-importance - beyond you - to land
on those barren places you never knew
you had drained of colour; it spins the thread
that winds a scar tight so that it does not grow
into the volcano
holding its shadow hostage
with the threat of eruption,
rather it must be the outline
of a mountain range of memory,
a reminder that beauty builds
its shape from the ugly things it conquered;
sorry - it offers a sweet prose,
speaks the gentle language
only wounds and time know.

My love your words are knives
Broken arrows impaled in my side

The brontide words
Of a wounded man
Echo still,
Silent
From when they began
In this place.
...
A voice, not his!
But an Injured man anew
Casting the echoes back
To the stranded,
The echoes remain
Repeated in a new voice
From another wounded man
With brontide dreams