#physicalpain
My woman, she done left me,
My wife, she may go too.
I shake my head and wonder
What am I going to do?
I got the busted knee blues.
Yeah, the busted knee blues.
I’d get down on my knees and pray
But that, I can not do.
I limp around the house at night
I limp into my bed.
My wife say she don’t do no limp;
And that is all she said.
It’s the busted knee blues,
Yeah, **** busted knee blues!
I’d get down on my knees and pray.
But that, I can not do.
I shook my cane at God on high!
But He was not amused -
He lit my cane wit lightning
And now I’m all confused!
I got the busted knee blues.
Yeah man, the busted knee blues.
I’d get down on my knees and pray.
But that, I can not do.
I’d get down on my knees and pray
But you know Lord, that I can not do.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 2:44 AM UTC
It wasn't until my physical pain
met my mental pain
that I knew I had to surrender.
I wanted to remember,
so they finally crossed paths
shaking hands with
another
as my body was a bloodbath
turning to scarlet color.
Glossing, my eyes
poured out the lies
as I started to cry,
I couldn't resist the fight
of my fist
to speak of this.
I know I know,
I know.
Once again I had let go of
you
you
& you.
And my mental pain said goodbye
to my physical pain
and so did you & I.
May 16, 2018
May 16, 2018 at 8:18 PM UTC
Here I am bleeding again
Taken aback by mortal fear.
Staring at faith
Staged by hope--
Pouring rain on visceral cage–
The sound of deep
Calling to deep.
Repressed feelings buried by Time.
Epitaph reads on the forgotten Grave:
"Here lies the child now grown.
His hopes and dreams
Dashed to pieces.
This is where the child died."
I often hear the Mystic Keeper
Calling from night
And tradition calling from Artificial light
As I run through scorched Barren
Fields of doubt,
Walking barefoot over these Coals
Crouching low
To hide my eyes
As I run
And as I hide
From what has already been revealed--
The tombstone says it all.
When I am out on the water
Lost in the Channel fog
I often see fleeting glimpses of
White cliffs of hope
Like the white cliffs of Dover
Shining on the edge of Melancholy Sea.
But they often turn out to be
Withered white
Seeds of religious platitudes.
And then there is the ready Reflection
Of the looking glass
That often tricks the Beholder.
For in it truth is not seen.
What is seen is graffiti of soul
Hiding the crumbling
Cracks of age–
The threshold where
Sanity meets its end.
Isolation has become
A shining steel blade
Cutting deep
Into the heart of hearts.
Nothing lives after amputation.
Depending on emotional Prosthetics--
Phantom pain
When nothing is There.
But in the midst of these Devastations
I am learning to take--
Howbeit reluctantly--
The hand of trust and grace;
Allowing
Hope to build
A fortress for dreams…
Set boundaries better
Than no control at all.
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 10:48 AM UTC