"painfilled" poems
Somewhere between wanting to cover my entire body with tattoos
and tearing my skin off
Whatever hurts more.
I want my surface to burn
when hot tears spread out.
Unspoken words like a simphony
in my subconscious abyss.
Sour memories soaring my tongue
like cherry wine.
Trying to fill the void,
but my holes get even deeper.
Don't run your fingers gently on my body,
Make me bleed,
Make me burn alive.
Make me feel pain,
the pain i deserve.
May 30, 2017
May 30, 2017 at 7:50 AM UTC
They say that the only way to heal a broken heart is with time
That always sounded stupid to me
The only cure for a painfilled heart and mind
Is with time.
The sun will continues to rise, it still shines as bright
The moon and stars still align and glisten in the night
The Season still change, and we too will change
As father time waits for no man
Its all part of Gods plan
Today I woke up.
And you know,
I think I'm starting to believe them
-
Nov 4, 2023
Nov 4, 2023 at 7:57 AM UTC
oh heavy heart
painfilled
I’m drowning
in the emptiness
of my lonely despair.
oh heavy heart
breathless
I’m suffocating
with the sounds
of my mournful sighs.
oh heavy heart
oppressed
I’ve collapsed
under the weight
of my desperate thoughts.
oh heavy heart
my heavy heart
Unpublished work © 2010 Kimberly Rae Albright
Apr 8, 2010
Apr 8, 2010 at 6:11 AM UTC
No known solution for a cast down, complex, generational formula, each one adding a bitter part of this, or that, practiced, rehearsed the diatribe, what she said, he said, I said, around again over and over once again, our legacy of unhealed conflict, a contagion, like a blunt needle stuck in a worn-out groove, Billie Holiday sings the blues, ad infinitum.
In our family, we give in many ways but with some stuff, we’re really stingy, like with trust, forgiveness, openness, and eventually, we stick our anger, our disappointments, our pain, especially our pain, on an old, dusty shelf; we learn early on to keep hidden our feelings, never will we discuss, process, pardon, our pain, we know only the back burner on a long, slow, simmer.
And at times the old shelf, grows weary, tires of our resentment, our fear, our grief, our unyielding self-righteousness, still it manages until death beckons; and with a silent shiver and our final breath, we push off into eternal darkness, our painfilled DNA, our infectious, internal, indignation intact, leaving yet another broken heart held fast, in the dust, on the shelf.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 3:43 PM UTC
My heart hurts
But this time
I know the reason
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 12:21 PM UTC