"scabbing" poems
Something lives below my skin,
It’s burrowed down, deep within
It burns my body, wearing me thin
And that ***** won’t ever give in
It scrabbles and rives, as I tear me apart
With nails like knives, so close to my heart
I claw at my limbs with fingers that seek
To split open my flesh, the tissue so weak
Blood busts forth as I tear at the itch
As I work hard to get rid of this *****
My nails dyed red, I can not stop now
The need so strong, to exorcise it somehow
Covered in scars, scabbing and sore
As I cry with the pain, limbs ragged and raw
I pause for a moment waiting to see
If it is no longer residing in me
Holding my breath, maybe its gone
If I can’t rid myself of this wrong
This dark demon will drive me insane
But it comes crawling again and again
Something lives below my skin,
It’s burrowed down, deep within
It burns my body, wearing me thin
And that ***** won’t ever give in
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 10:58 AM UTC
I picked out a **** out cigarette
Stained with scabbing Lipstick
And I notice something peculiar ;
These memories taste like copper
I pressed it back into the ashtray
Only to be forgotten again...
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 7:27 PM UTC
Today the circus poster
is scabbing off the concrete wall
and the children have forgotten
if they knew at all.
Father, do you remember?
Only the sound remains,
the distant thump of the good elephants,
the voice of the ancient lions
and how the bells
trembled for the flying man.
I, laughing,
lifted to your high shoulder
or small at the rough legs of strangers,
was not afraid.
You held my hand
and were instant to explain
the three rings of danger.
Oh see the naughty clown
and the wild parade
while love love
love grew rings around me.
this was the sound where it began;
our breath pounding up to see
the flying man breast out
across the boarded sky
and climb the air.
I remember the color of music
and how forever
all the trembling bells of you
were mine.
1.6k
You are the candle that ignites rebellious against the dusk
Defiantly noble as one cursed by pride must
You are the smoke floating in the waves of evening's cold
Less honest than your sentiment is bold
You are the weary diary entries of bleeding wrists
but what is a blank canvas without a risk?
You are a dive bar so neon and ever glowing proud
But what is a gathering without a crowd?
You are a monument solidly marked and stern
But what is lesson when no one learns?
You are a canon brutal in force but ever afraid
But what is a symphony never played?
You are scar scabbing and lifetimes past dead
But what is a confession never said?
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 5:29 PM UTC
That I'll never feel again, that the numbness I've enbalmed myself in might never wash off.
That I'll never find a place where I belong, that I'll always be an outcast, an outlier.
That I'm too different, that people will never be able to accept both me and my endless flaws.
That I'll never extinguish the fire of bitterness and regret that burns endlessly in my hardened heart.
That I'll never be articulate again, that one day my witty words will fail me and my blundering words will completely take over.
That I'll never feel confidence, that I'll never be able to look past my exterior, my vessel.
That I'll never feel the warm light of affection and love, that the clouds of poisonous lonliness will consume me with fatal lesions that seep out scorn and desperation.
That I'll never be able to forgive, that I'll never be able to forget. That my decisions will haunt my psyche forever, ever present.
That I'll always be mediocre, that I'll always settle.
That I'll always be misunderstood and mistreated. That I'll never be some-ones perfect fit.
That I'll always hide behind cynisim and sarcasm. That my sharp blunt words will come back to tear at me.
That I'll always be this way.
I'm worried that life has broken me in ways that are irrepairable.
I'm worried that I will remain this way. Damaged, insecure and broken.
Yes, wounds tend to heal. But what happens when you are ruined inside and out?
Not in a dramatic way, in an honest way. Visable scars cover me.
I'm worried that the marks, ****** cuts and scabbing blemishes will be my albatross and that it will consume me.
I'm worried.
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 12:53 PM UTC
Loving you is a self inflicted wound.
I begin to heal, scab over and itch
but I like the way (loving you) feels,
so I scratch the wound open again.
Loving you is a silent deed
done alone in whispers I dare not speak.
Done in darkness and in guilt.
Never knowing if the simple act of feeling
makes me more human
or less.
Loving you is a deep rooted poison,
an unforgivable sin,
a sickly sweet ichor that has seeped into my bones.
It wakes me in the night while deep in dream
making me live things that never were
and that will never come to be.
Loving you is a forest fire
and all I've made,
all I have,
is resting right next to the blaze.
All I can do is watch
and pray that loving you
won't burn everything else to the ground.
Loving you is full of loathing,
full of shame.
It is done in hidden, dark places of my soul.
I can take you out and play
with the idea you put inside my heart,
secretly.
It's a self inflicted wound, you see.
And when I'm finally healing,
scabbing over my thoughts of you,
thoughts you put there unknowingly,
unwittingly,
accidentally,
I scratch.
because I still like the way (loving you) feels.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 1:01 PM UTC
You are not allowed to like me
I'm afraid of what it will do to me
I can't let you get close to me
I'm afraid of how you will hurt me
I've caged my self up for a year,
not letting anyone have the key
my padlocked heart never beating
just a fist pounding against the wall,
mimicking my missing emotions
awaiting the realization from those around me that the key to my heart is not in my pants,
and THOSE need a key as well
the key to my heart is in my mind,
if you can fool me into believing you like me, you get my heart,
if you can fool my heart into believing you love me,
you get my mind.
so maybe i am a foolish person
the walls of the cage my only comfort,
cold metal my closest friend,
the slightest movement and it caresses my skin
the words I speak bouncing off of impenetrable walls
sinking in to my skin, my veins
slowing the blood flow to my emotionless heart
compressed, depressed, soulless and asleep
You are not allowed to like me
There is no reason to
The words i speak sharpened to daggers, in the hopes of removing your flesh, freeing your blood to the floor mine has stained
My skin a canvas for the art of pain, my emotions wounding me,
My scalp the hidden salvation for my nails, leaving holes as claw away the thoughts of a happiness I am afraid of having
Blood and tears the last memory of happiness
blood and tears the ocean i drown myself in
Blood and tears washing away my fearlessness
blood and tears the ocean i drown myself in
Blood and tears washing away my fearlessness
Blood and tears
scabbing together what is left of me
You are not allowed to like me
I'm afraid of myself
I can't let you get close to me
I break too easy
I'm fragile
The walls of the cage my only comfort
they hold me
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 7:47 AM UTC
the city winds had ****** me up and spat me back out,
and i thought i was so hip and unknown, with swirling
leopard prints and black gloved hands. a boy by my side
that looked at me with thunderstorms.
the city buildings shadowed me and protected me from
the truth attempting to leave bruises on my
buckled knees.
a tourist in uncharted waters, a damsel
who continuously puts herself in
distress.
my hair was Medusa, his fingers were
Dionysus, and when they fused,
our Mount Olympus was created, tasting like
berries and scratching at snake bites
scabbing and itching to be
reopened.
his kisses tasted like nostalgia.
i’m an american girl who is super glue, affixing
herself on whatever will stay long
enough.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 4:12 PM UTC
I need to speak my mind more often.
I need to speak it truthfully,
Pent up it fumes and poisons me.
Turns my tongue to ash.
Today I've noticed I didn't recognize myself.
Fires have warped my features,
Though unchanged my reflection
yields new connotation.
Poets once unheard
now rip tears from my eyes.
Music plays on repeat for hours,
Immersing me in a blanket of deceit.
I hide myself behind my mask of notes,
Submerging myself in an unbreakable bubble,
But its protective husk suppresses the peril within.
The truth is I'm suffocating.
My open wounds pus hate,
Scabbing over in deceit that only cracks with more hate,
Unexplainable angst inflames a desire to break out,
To speak my mind truthfully.
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 5:16 PM UTC
Im coming of age
In the era of the devoid
Hollow greed seeps unearned
from elephanitus of love
all the dead *** heads
and the glorifed child **** stars
live in tandem with virginity commerce
a descriptive high full of lies
here we are raised to never forget
the look on a beautiful girls face
when the zippers break and all the mallets fall
when mud and blood and ***** mix to a collegiate concoction
Leaving her to bear the scabbing burns
The openings the ambrosia flesh wounds
The giant stamp of pulsing indecency
The markings don’t go so well with her hollow moon smiles
They don’t blend with her regal clavicles
To bend them in with a wrench
Would do no damage to this already feral *****
Don’t try to hide
The billboards may be sagging
But they carry the message loud and effeminate
All the drum ticks and coated arteries will explode
They cant be stopped
Mucho gusto, muy bien
All that we ever where locked into some
Tooth paste stained and tattered bibliomeca
It is true I have become that broken shameful collection
Which we are taught to stain in the wood works of our memory
I turn to page 1168
And I know that the bruises will be permanent
Surrounding the globe and bridging in the gaps
The ones that they left between your calamity eyes
Will they still love me with one foot locked in a bear trap
And a hobo having the last of my eyelashes ?
Or maybe just the scary albinos at the san Francisco bar scene
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 8:56 AM UTC
she was called forth
from the rain, sing-screaming through
the lonesome pines, scattering needles
like a ****** angel; stomping
the dust into mud.
festivals strung on her wrists, the
flags shouting louder through leaves
than even that hung-up sun could muster.
rocks rambled up her spine, feet
calloused from dancing, she shrugged,
suspended above the moss.
the fire was never so bright.
would the black streets in a
harsh, dead city be deeper or
stronger than this?, can the skyscrapers
cut open clouds with their teeth
like she gnashed through God's hair
and tangled the sound of her blood
with the river?
even her chin was a boulder;
her knees flat skipping stones.
she wore soft bark and orange.
(aspens on hillsides with sunsets,
roots blending with bones and vein
and skin)
her hair spread out as a tree underwater,
or braided tight into vines.
a cup in each hand,
a sword in her mouth,
a wand on her waist,
pentacles on every inch,
forever breathing with the skin
of the earth.
and when she had left:
the missions departed, coals are black
in the cold city, skies scraped and scabbing.
burnt with the deep of a flame-led
memory.
the shallow graves upturned and cried out
into the rain,
*where has the base of my stream
flown from, if not the sharp
scent of her skin?
what shadow have I carried if not
an absence tied under my feet to
only be free in the morning
with her hair in my mouth?
where does the river flow
from here?*
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 1:35 PM UTC
"What's your name, pretty thing?"
"Tomorrow, you'll never catch up to me."
She told me she had leprosy.
She hated everyone, including me.
She spoke in seas of divine prophesy.
She said her new scars were scabbing.
I told her I'd eat her leprosy.
I hated everyone, but she intrigued me.
I spoke in droplets of dissonance.
I would pick her scabs with shards of glass.
I'll make you mine Tomorrow.
You will become my Everyday.
Sep 21, 2010
Sep 21, 2010 at 2:49 PM UTC
Cold and windy, the night sky bleeds
Lamplight reflects warm on scabbing concrete
Cigarette feels small in clammy hands
As I stand in the midst of the end
I notice only what I cannot ignore
I ignore that which is blinding
And in the end, find nothing
Newspaper reads of war, and famine
These things do not concern me
My famine is ending
My war beginning
Feb 8, 2011
Feb 8, 2011 at 3:27 AM UTC
My soul shakes and I feel that ancient rage
It breathes in and out of my lungs
Flowing like the slight breath of smoke
After the first taste of ecstasy
Rage is not black or darkly brooding
Broken and full it burns in my veins
Fought and forced and drawn upon
Like some frigid barefoot army
Strong as I am I wouldn't and couldn't be
If not for the rage that feeds the battle cry
Ragged are the edges of my heart
Wounded, scarred, stitched and ******
All the ties that make me strong burn me
Each strength I gain I lose a little
Thick and festering I feel it flare
Scorched are the remains of what I became
Every scabbing wound you left on me
In my rage is hate, yellow as drowning green
In my rage is strength, slick as steel fencing
In my rage is love, brutal as searing live wood
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 12:02 AM UTC
better to be silent
than say words
that are brittle
and break
under the
weight
of their meaning.
existing without living
waking and breathing
in short spurts of pain
too ***** to be touched
picked and scabbing
bleeding into dinner
kissing into sleep
choking
pushed away
love this is not
lust preserves the rot
my heart's in a knot
if only I was taught
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 9:19 PM UTC
*
* Living under
the heady cast of the Juniper tree ;
an existence founded over sweeter decay
* It thatches a callous scabbing for us to build upon
but releases gases from beneath
that humour our sleep-waking state
* Everything is yield to its medicated sterility
yet,
as time passes,
things become more vulnerable to rotting conditions :
loose pore attachment
splits in nails
soft grey flakings
withdrawn circulation
moisture
fluctuating body tempature
unattached thought
disorientation
thoughtless and extreme mood
forgotten bursts of severe aggression ...
* Fertile tiny flies
travel through
the sponge of everything :
they balance this environment
* Disquieted woozy days
and slum summer
and guests who feel foreign
when our displays spill over...
it’s all mallatuned
* Small tumbles, injury and self care shelved
* Entertainment is imperative
jar in mit
distraction is key
merry made and merry go round
and kilter unkeen
and one patient taking care of the other patient
crying jokes at each a smother
unkept nesters
bruises and guestures
emotionally infested infantasy
investment ingested
under the guidance of the Juniper tree....
the botchful why of the juniper
Apr 29, 2019
Apr 29, 2019 at 11:38 PM UTC
We are people
Cut by words
Bruised and battered egos from a world hungry for innocence
Bleeding ink and scabbing over with metaphors
We’re healing
Whisper words of truth, revealing new sight on an old world
Your language is strange to this place
I speak with you
We are poets
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 7:58 AM UTC
missing you used to be an open wound.
every time i saw you, heard you, thought of you, it hurt.
i did everything i could to go back in time, and i tried to get your attention like you were the last band-aid in the box.
and now i am healing, scabbing, slowly.
it's itchy and uncomfortable and i avoided your eye contact in the halls five times today alone.
i have to work on not picking at my scab.
every time i think of you my fingers ache for the familiar movement, but i must not.
sometimes it still hurts, because you are still around and my skin has not grown back all the way.
i still bleed.
but scabs do not last forever, and i am healing,
even if you leave a scar.
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 5:39 PM UTC
A broken leg floats
After its bones sink,
yellow turns red
turns white turns pink,
sweet turns black
turns sour turns rotten,
It turns in its grave
it bangs in its coffin,
Coffee beans are chopped
and bought from them,
turned hot and then forgotten,
Turned cups flow their drink
toward the waste,
It waits in the **** and under the bandage,
based in the wound and under the scabbing,
It's soon to fall off and show us a scar,
It's color is pink, It's over the raw.
Aug 2, 2010
Aug 2, 2010 at 9:17 AM UTC
Bloodied knuckles,
Scabbing fists,
Held quite fast to stinging wrists.
A mark or two that perfectly fits,
Hidden beneath where a watch now sits.
-
A can of tuna, once a day.
An apple keeps the hunger away,
Black coffee keeps the pain at bay.
A darkened head is my mainstay,
Tomorrow begs for a brighter day.
Here's to hoping I don't fade away.
But no, forget now.
No, not today.
N.H.
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 3:14 AM UTC
i have a cut on the bottom of my foot
how, i don’t know
when, i don’t know
it merely appeared one morning
i was drowning in cold sweat
i was choking in all that sunshine
and in my transparent
chimeric dream state
birds’ song and memory
became intertwined
i think i lit a fire the night before
i think i found a begging hand
and slammed it in the door
i think i still was guilty
and ridden with malaise
i think i hung my coat in smoke
beside my crafted blaze
to cover up the stench
of my last few days
so i awoke
with this cut, as i said
barely stitched together
by eager hands of fibroblasts
coagulation had amassed
futility in its efforts
for on discovering this cut
and the soreness that enveloped it
i crushed the meat
between my fingers
until the milk of infection
and blood of my veins
flooded in release of pain
broke the binding scabbing chain
and the fleshy chasm still remained
that day i spent repenting
or correcting, i should say
for as the morning trudged along
i found the casualties of my ways:
an opportunity slaughtered
that a coward wouldn’t save
a friend beneath a boulder
in the belly of a cave
and a innocent life
in that drowsy night
found my tires
as its grave
but with all the mistakes i’m sure i’ve made
with all the morals my moves degrade
with all the arrogance i parade
and all the faces of my charade
i know a hole of regret
where my heart should be put
yet i only wish i was not beset
by this cut upon my foot
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 10:11 PM UTC
‘saw him standing at the brink,
crusty flick,
scabbing ash
housed between two neighboring fingers,
shedding
top coat,
peeling mask
eye-to-eye
with the dirt under-
-neath
those sleepy blue eyes
of a born-again addict,
matter-of-fact it
to be keen,
a stupid, cupid, love feign
blinded by the coarse..
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 10:49 PM UTC
I still see things, smell things, hear things-
although they are not still
in immediate existence
There are pieces of time
swept in between the fabric
of space separating
knowing and forgetting
They exist in a place all their own
separate from reality
in implicit duality
clawing and scabbing me
But they have lost their naivety,
and have had their creativity
swapped with rationality
the colors that once blared vibrantly,
fade & drip into the obscurity
that has poisoned my mentality
but they are still very much there
hallowed and impaired,
yet so very much there
Fall has
indeed
befallen
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 8:32 PM UTC
Swiftly jumping
from leaf to leaf--
scorching--
everything is ash!
Searing, heavy breath hot
sweat pours from hair down the back
to escape the heat
smoke chokes the lungs...
Dark cloud for the world
to see the charred destruction
Excruciating
burns. Torturously slow...
Flesh boiling, melting
pain scabbing stabbing every nerve
survivors see scars as a reminder.
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 12:55 PM UTC