I'll count the scars
Scattered across my hands and arms
And hips and stomach
Instead of the stars that drift across
The sky.

I'll count the scars I have,
Most caused by me,
Some caused by others,
And I'll dream of a time
I was a clean slate,
A time I was better than I am now,
And I'll get better.
I promise I'm getting better.

And if your lips
Can grace my scars,
Then maybe I can have the nerve
To count stars
Instead of scars.

Sometimes I think I’m good with words

Sometimes I firmly believe that everything I’ve ever
muttered
has been so meaningless that it causes someone pain

All my life I’ve been afraid that I’d caused more hurt than
good,
Just to find the same people I had blind faith in
Have been using my body and mind for their selfish goals

I was a good marionette
My body is a good body, endures good pain
it remained dull, insensitive despite everything.

As a result of everything.

Looking at all my past poems, blindly in love,
A dog of my masters,
who taught me how best to take care of them,  

I believe I had more potential than Cinderella,
I wish I hadn’t been at that bar, alone
I wish daddy could love,
I wish I hadn’t been attracted to heavy, lead words
launched towards my fragile ego.

I wish I could go back and **** that one year old girl.
I wish, when I was in first grade, and they called me
“Bald” for the first time, that
I had worn my scars with pride.

“Scars are signs of warriors” I said with arrogance
Whilst I pulled my bangs forwards,
So that despite my words, nobody would know.

“Scars are signs of warriors”, I say,
and maybe it’s  just comfort, or perhaps,

I look for reasons to believe I’ll bear through this.

Yes, I have scars.
They're part of who I am.
I didn't see them comming.
but earned them all the same.
They're not always appearent.
Some are hidden, some are not.
But trust me, "I still feel them"
with every passing storm.
The scars I have inside me
by far haunt me the worst.
They keep my heart from your heart
a cowards shield and curse.

"Every scar has a story."

Mine's simple.

Suicide.
Harsh words.
Hate.
Love.

Too much things in life.

But I realized that these scars changed who I am.
How I saw myself.

I still have these scars in my arm.
I have scars in my heart that are too deep to forget.
People say time would heal the scars,
but the only thing time can heal is itself.

The bleeding stopped.
But the scar never closed.
I'm scared it would get infected.
I'm scared other people would see it and run away.

Sometimes, I just stare at it.
Questioning what was my intention.
The what ifs.
What if I died?
Would anyone care?
What if it healed?
Would I be the same as everyone else? Blemish free?

I realized that being the same is boring.
A scar represents what you went through.
A scar shows that you're strong.
Never forget the scar.

To let a scratch heal
You leave it alone
You don't pick, don't scratch
Let it bleed on its own
Until the blood runs out
Or a new scar forms
You just leave it alone
Let the cold blood warm

This about scratches, bruises, or scars
Everyone knows it's true
Then why, I ask, must you bother my own?
When these scratches were caused by you?

You've seen the blood
And the pain on my face
You've heard my cries
For a sort of embrace
But instead you pick
And poke and scratch
You make the bad worse
In my throat the tears catch

So my scratches keep bleeding
And new scars seem mundane
While old scars keep waiting
To bleed once again

But looking at these scars,
The scratches on my heart
I ask you a question
One to be asked at the start

Is it better or worse,
Or does it matter not,
To cut a new wound
Or have an old one sought?

but the scars
on your arms
aren't as bad
as the screams
in your head

When I first heard of the concept of self harm, in sixth or seventh grade, I didn’t believe it could be addictive. I didn’t understand how people tore apart their skin just for the sake of tearing things apart.

That changed real quick when I had my first panic attack at 14 and used a dull pair of scissors to scratch a line down my arm. It barely even bled, but it was the beginning of something. It was a temporary peace, a comfort in the moment and a monster in the next.

And so it began. I bought men’s razors, carried them home in my pockets and hit them against dressers and with books until they broke apart. I hid the blades in a small cardboard box behind the books on my shelves, hid bandages and antiseptic and a long, dull razor blade (the kind you use to cut glass and paint) that I’d stolen from my dad’s tool bench. Just in case I needed to escalate.

I wore long sleeves and jeans to cover my misdeeds, the long, thin scratches lined up neatly along my thighs. Monthly became weekly became every other day as I lost control of myself, lost myself in the glint of blades and the pools of red and the feeling of pure, unadulterated relief. I was 14 acting like my life was coming to an end (I was convinced it was). I wrote poetry in the empty pages of my French workbook and scratched panicked lines down my forearms in Geometry. I became a shell of myself, a shell pockmarked with fading scars, little white lines that screamed at me whenever I dared to look.

I liked them. I wanted more scars, I wanted them everywhere, I wanted physical, permanent records of my failings and my abysmal self-worth. I wanted a reminder that I could still feel something.

Sometimes I stopped. Six months after I started I decided I needed to quit, so I drew butterflies on my arms and labeled them with the names of people I loved. I stayed off the drug for something like three months, leaving my blades untouched in their hiding place. When my grandpa died, it became too much and the blades came out, crashed into my shaking hands as I heaved with loss and the revelation that I felt nothing.

One weekend I came home from a lake trip with my dad and my best friends to find that my blade box, hastily shoved under a pillow, was gone. After searching under the bed for a good twenty minutes I determined that my mom had found it. So I waited for the next few weeks to be approached, for her to ask what the deal was, for her to say anything. And she never did. That was when I lost faith in the adults in my life and that was also when I bought new razors to keep in a new box in a new hiding place. I carved my resentment into my arms now, instead of on my legs where I’d already mapped out months of self-torture. On my arms they were visible.

I sometimes rolled my sleeves up in class, past my hidden Band-Aids and sometimes up past my scabbed cuts, to see if anyone would notice. No one did. I wasn’t cutting for attention, but I was lost and looking for help.

My best friend taught me how to sanitize my blades, walked with me to Target to buy razors and bandages. It was surreal how normal it was to us. We were talking each other out of suicide every other week because we didn’t want to be alone but we didn’t want to be alive, either. I was so, so scared that I would wake up one morning to find her dead.

My cuts went from panicked, messy, urgent to carefully executed, perfectly straight lines. I had it down to a science, sometimes going months in between but always thinking about the next fix. A year passed. I thought about it less.

There was never a moment that I decided to stop, but somehow I did, between my first job and my driver’s license and my transition into adulthood. I traced the scars on my arms but didn’t really feel like making new ones -- I was still sad, constantly, but I had started teaching myself to be happy, to find love for myself and beauty in life. As I write this, I’ve been clean for over six months.  

The urge fades over time. Sometimes, in the midst of a 3 a.m. surge-of-panic, I’m tempted to take the few blades I still have out of the iPhone box in the top drawer of my dresser. But then I remember that cutting didn’t solve anything, and it never will. My escapades in self-harm taught me to be kind to myself. And it’s so, so hard every single day. I still wish for more scars, more representation of the suffering I lived through, but I’m still breathing and I’m slowly clawing myself out of the mouth of this beast. I’m alive.

Because at the end of the day, all you can do is survive.

Your smell lingers
on my skin,
caught in the scars
you forged,

a purple bed -
spread, to match
my legs

contoured to your
pleasure

my screams silenced
by your hands, that
start to wander
down,

between my legs,

a radio blasting meaningless
pop songs, that will become

a horros, hollow
soundtrack, every time
I'm caught off guard

blood - so much
blood, searing agony,

as you force your way
into me,

I am ice, frozen
solid and cold

I do not want
to thaw

to carry the scars
outside this
room

to take this nightmare
into daylight

I run, as soon as
I can,

I fumble at the
lock,

picking it apart
as you picked
me

apart,

I'm not going
to carry these
scars

I am not going
into battle

we are not
at war

no, I will
surrender

and leave our
story in this
room

Wolves of all,
Hear thy cry.
Save me from this light.

It blinds my cornea.
It burns my skin...
The melanin darkens.

Revealing the Scars.

The scars of the past.
Have been raised from the dead.
Resurrected now,
Revealing my sins.

Wolves of Old,
Hear my cry...
Save me from this world.
Take me from this life..

So unsure of the thoughts we think,
Yet, so confident in these masks we flaunt,
Day to day we play the part,
But not just quite! yells out our heart.
When the crowd disappears,
When its late at night,
So late that you envy the birds chirping,
The ever rising sun mocking you,
Is when you feel at most like you for that's all that's left.
It's when you feel at home,
Like your worn out feet can rest.
As an old time projector shows,
Your mind plays scene after scene,
But you know it's always just a showing for one.
Of wins, losses,
Love, lovers and well again, more losses.
Night is the decider and the one to always listen.
No advice or judgments made,
No words are needed because theres no need when silence tells you more than any sound could,
Because the night is when you meet the side of you,
The side that you keep locked away for all those around you to be sheltered from,
The side that you fear what really means,
But forever the side of you that understands it all,
But in all realization comes a restraint, thus is sleep,
In sleep the reality and truth is presented then promptly thrown away.
Dreams, with a hand on your shoulder then show us the door,
But only allow us the peep hole and through that even, we begin to make sense of why it all is, of who we all are.
But, dreams always vanish just as they are to open this door,
We're given the pleasure of looking in briefly,
But a gave never suited with enough time to take that first real step in.
We know a gilded idea of who we are, and even those around us.
We hunt for this partner who upon meeting, can't put together our puzzle but leaves them with a burning feeling to find out more,
They'll show no shame in looking to us for help for they too will feel that brand of unbridled trust and understanding that can only been told by the other's eyes.
The ones that ask for help in a way that we, in a childish way hope that they can because it's been a game running for so long that you just want a winner to move on to the next chapter with a whole new struggle,
But at least a struggle you can share, a struggle that teaches you the meaning of compassion and love. .
This reveals the help to solve the formula, the key, everything that shows that you actually are you,
And I, actually me.
A someone who will look you in the eyes and ask the same.
We as outsiders and those in search of anything want a challenge,
We want to finally believe in what we no longer know after years of becoming jaded, and hardened to the magnificence around us,
To believe in what we so painfully crave exists somewhere even when we've written all off and came close to settling.
We want something free of normal,
We want something free of what we think or are told we "want",
So there I look for you,
Here alone in this twilight hour,
I bleed into my consonants and vowels,
Hoping in some miracle out there you sit too,
Staring into the cool night, which is soon to be morning sky,
Not feeling sad, depressed, or off center,
But rather you're just staring into the quiet that is being alone,
Simply because it allows you to just be alone.
You'll be staring right into that alone and you'll stare at your hands,
In vision will become those the scars, imperfections, lovers and friends alike, stories and most of all mishaps of lost days that are almost beyond reprehension and alleviation,
The pain is not being able to fix a single part of any fully.
And you'll pick at those scars as I have done.
You'll pick until you feel yourself bleed into what it is that translates your soul in front of you,
You'll bleed all of whatever you can handle showing what's really inside,
Showing what you're actually made of where it matters.
You'll bleed just to know someone lives besides you,
And it's not just a painful feeling inside;
As that blood drains and the weight is lifted,
You notice another line,
Another stream that looks just as yours, just not quite the same
A stream of blood feeling just like yours, but oddly you get scared.
Not scared of this stream of feeling and pain for it's something you recognize and know so well,
But you're scared because you finally see you're not actually alone
It approaches where you let it all go and you can see it,
You, with eyes locked in watch the thick, the release,
Flowing from a source unknown to you,
A symbol of another place that to you feels like home;
Of the true pain and confusion towhere that blood came from,
Of the dark definition of the world that blood was made.
But as this all happens, and while deep inside of you,
From top to bottom; nothing makes more sense than to want to leave,
You can't help but to crave this new found blood's feels.
Just as it hits your stream, and words come alive to your wound,
Giving every scratch, cut, release, and openness a meaning,
It gives it all form.
A form and meaning that after sometime it's realized;
The blood and need for release you find exists and it's not just you.
This blood is red, warm, and once alive, just like yours.
This blood searches for more of itself to find function and purpose,
Just like yours.
Its's warm and reassuring like home after a long absence.
The two streams meet and slowly unite,
Yet never losing one another's form.
Never losing that piece that makes it unique,
That makes it special.
There they lye two different streams running dangerously close together,
Two different stories and collections of scars gone that had been picked open and let free.
They come to a slow stop meeting and almost battling for space after a long journey,
The streams clearly find comfort and hope in another,
Yet the fear of opening up and allowing for full crossing keeps them nearly one but still divided and mange to  stay at a precauciouos distance.
The two different types and shades of blood take affect.
While they never truly become one fluid stream,
They brush so close they are almost one,
Almost a perfect blend of synergy.
Though, many of the borders actually intertwine showing a unification of the two.
These borders finding common ground, similar feel and a greed purpose find the ability to unite together,
If not to make one but to take two and make it even stronger with the help of another.
It brings the two streams to be one yet after some time in a perfectly off tone brand of way,
They are two halves of a beautiful stream now as they grow together.
As you lye there and watch your stream become part of another,
You notice how beautiful it really is, how strong and full it looks,
You start to feel how beautiful two separate streams can be when given just through just enough similarity to naturally find each other,
Given by two perfectly dissociated powers who wanted something more,
Something real and sustainable but furthermore,
How this act of freedom and vocally silent streams,
Running at their own will and with nature's predestined track,
become something that neither stream was looking for but found fullness in finding.
How we'll find that these crossings can become something that balances our lost minds and spirits,
How it can be something that feels real and feels worth being a part of,
Not just for you,
But for someone else.

I sit letting my pen bleed my truth and the ink runs from the paper,
I smirk as it travels off into a world unknown on a path it chooses itself,
All I hope is out there you, whomever you may be, are sitting there,
Staring at your scars and growing tired of so much stream built behind your finger tips,
So much so that you pick the scars,
You study what's beneath them and then just like that,
The scars are open and you can witness your stream try and watch it also find its way home.
It flees from your release because the stream is no longer for you,
The stream is the part of you that you let go in hopes that another will find a way to deal with your stream as you with theirs.
For every stream there is a purpose,
Even if that purpose is simply to find and understand its truly not alone,

All I can hope, is that when the eye wanders from the vast sea we must battle and decipher,
That will turn to look and see a stream,
Running from both sides,
Connecting you,
And me.

Scars! Scars! On her Arms
Sad remembrance of past harms
Hold her close—love her deep
Her scars are no longer hers to keep
Whisper soft; ease the pain
Stand together in the rain
Speak with love, Speak the truth
All of this, just to prove:
She’s worth more than she may ever see
Desire for her to be all she can be
Worth more than the sum of past harms
Worth more than the scars on her arms

This is the war, of a girl, who came to this world with no oxygen in her lungs. She survived as little as she was with her arriving three months early. With a beautiful twin to fight the battle with her side to side.

Men couldn't keep their hands off of her. Her mind was a ticking time bomb of thoughts, then she went to highschool. With a few paper cuts and scrapes from a boy who granted her first kiss.

She met a girl, She fought for this girl treasured her adored her as much as she could. Then her heart got shot. She could not breathe for the longest of time. It left a big scar on her heart and the new found scars on her leg that were no longer papercuts.

Then she met a boy, as he learned to love her, the scars began to fade ever so slowly. Then there was an ambush of emotion breaking the little scared heart she had left. She walked around in the ruins of the battle ground as her mind held the war zone.

Lets see if the war will end with someone new and with no more battle scars leaving her with true love and peace.

is it too much to ask
for my scars never to fade?
is it too much to ask
for you to care that they're there?

that once upon a time i did that
and i didn't care if you saw,
but now when i do it, i do it for you
with the hope that you'll care enough to notice me

and notice that i'm falling
and it's not just for you,
but my body is failing itself, and i'm going into that place again
the dark well that i can't climb out of.

i'm proud of my scars;
they show that i was hurting and dying
and yet now they're just scars and not still
bleeding.

why can't you even look at me?
why can't you even care a tiny bit?
you're killing me slowly,
but i know it's all my fault.

i'm sorry things are like this,
and i ****** it all up,
i'm sorry i'm like this,
sad, manic, dead inside.

i still want to show you all my scars
and i want to fall apart in your arms.

Scars are the memories of past
which is related to painful moment of life
I heard once my mother have said " never hide your scars
it's shows how powerful you are "
Yeah it's right
but this scars always do remind me of those painful nights
It was not my fault
that someone has harshly given me those painful scars
but then also after suffering
I do have to kept quiet
as if anyone got to know about it
then my family have to face humiliation
they will be ashamed
but it's not my fault
it's hard to accept
on those painful nights
I cried all alone
there was no one to support
This scars remind me of my loneliness
when someone is at fault
they why do I have to suffer
but yes that scars shows me the true colours of peoples
and have became my strength
It's always do remind me of my pain
as well as the power I held
It's have given me the power to fight the battle against those people all alone.

Is this a battle?
Is this a war?
These battle scars
They're never healing
I am ruined.
My body will never be the same,
I've fought for you
I've fought for us
I am scarred,
I am scarred for life.
These battle scars are never leaving
My heart is broken
I let it happen again.
Make it stop,
I am bleeding,
I am hurting.
Make it go away,
These scars are never going to change
They don't look like they're healing,
I've lost that power,
I have lost this battle.
They're no longer bumps and bruises
They are cuts and wounds
Deep thoughts, deep marks.
These battle scars have cut deep,
I cannot be saved,
I am marked.
These battle scars are not fading,
I cannot make them go away,
I'm at war with these scars.
I lost this battle,
I lost this war.
It is over.

My scars run deep.
Memories of pain etched
Where the metal kisses skin.
Even though the pain
Doesn’t seep,
The guilt flows heavy
With the red waves
And shame wraps it’s arms
Around me like a blanket
As I stand gripping the scissors
Willing the world to just
Stop

Wounds are scars.
Have heard it often,
Now, its like a song
Time heals all wounds.

But little do we know,
That its only wound
That  may be healed
With time not scars.

Scars is often a remnant,
A remembrance of wound.
That though may fade,
But its ever there.

There for us to see,
There for us to learn from,
There for us to teach with,
There for us to live with.

The action that started it.
The reaction that causes it.
The lesson learnt from it.
All follows us to the grave.

While some  are stepping stones.
some are bridges to limelight,
Some of our scars are unending pits.
Some are the object of oblivion

People just don't understand that my scars are part of what make me who I am,
I may have created them out of foolishness,
but they were debated over agony in the purist.
You may look at me differently because of them,
and of course I understand that,
they are not what make me pretty, nor friendly.
But they remind me that I am not always correct about everything.
They remind me that pain is real.
That I can feel whatever I want to feel in this insane world,
and even though I did make them myself,
I can remember the pain that was felt that in fact inspired them.

and now late at night when the silence creeps in,
I cannot sleep because I remember back then.
and the pain that you dealt may have been done in secret,
but either way you knew that I would hear it, and I will not say a word of hate towards you,
because we were small people in the middle of the sea.
And when I look down I have a constant reminder of that,
but I am stonger now, because of all the tears you caused me to cry.
I will stand taller now, because of your cruelties towards me.
I'll know not to cry next time.
Because in that situation it made things worse.

The heat in the room is smoldering
sweat beads on my forehead
and the fan can't keep up with the rising heat of summer
Her arms are still covered though
and i start to wonder
Who hurt her so bad?
So bad that tears weren't enough
that only a blade could make her feel
Human again
So bad that the pain couldn't all be held in one place
So bad that the scars on the inside had to reveal themselves
to the outside worls

Veterans of war show off their scars
Telling their frightening tales of battle
The say " right here, in this very spot
Is where the age old bullet was shot"

But what about the others
The girls with troubling pasts
That haunt their every hour
They sit in the corner clad in black their expressions turned sour

And when the pieces of themselves
Come some what back together
Like the veterans they have scars
Only its from their emotional wars

To the eye their perfect plain and pretty
Another person in the crowd
Another nameless happy soul
No sees, no one helps, there is no one to console

Alone they fight their treacherous battle
Friendships lost, loved ones gone
And when it's done the world goes on
To as if nothing was ever wrong

And if that one is found alone
Crying in the corner
They all question what's the matter
Since scarless is her stature

No one questions
No one helps
She has nothing physical to show
Yet there are scars, only emotional, you know

No bandaid can fix the heart break
And the world doesn't know how
To unchain her from the repeating past
And forever it seems this will last

MY FROG MASTERS

How thoughtful were the rainfalls
To water our gardens and flowers
The flowers spread wide garments
To celebrate their terminal beauty

The joyful frogs occupied my pond
To orchestrate their vocal prowess
They taught me to take blind leaps
Like lightning bouncing in the skies

Squatted, stretched, beeped down
I was a millstone on the pond floor
My slippery pond mates wondered
How soft I was in the maritime arts

Mortally rescued in a muddy mood
The clouds sent in rescuing showers
To confirm my firm loss to the frogs
Like a grain of salt cast into the seas


673. MONEY BAGS IN THEIR BODY BAGS

The money bags shopping for their body bags
Waggled through the makeshift supermarkets

Their ancestral homes they plotted modernity
Like the general gathering fine forces together

To the villages they made to return with pride
Like pregnant elephants caught up in the mud

Their desolate villages are deep and sickening
Glowing flamingly in the crucibles of local gins

The dusty and gravy pathways are like furnace
Burning the leather off from their frozen souls

Traditional birth attendants cut off their cords
And zipped the money bags in their body bags

674. A GLORIOUS DAY

The new day spoke powerfully
Like a war making superpower
And his voice roared forcefully
Like the skies forced to shower

The sunrays came dynamically
Like love responding to silence
Beauty crawled in submissively
Like the mixed arts and science

One eagle soared energetically
Like lions feuding in the colony
Far clouds relocated peacefully
Like souls betrayed to harmony

The breeze sighed thoughtfully
Like horses galloping on the lea
Inspiration unfolded thankfully
Crowns monuments with a pea

675.  THE FOG BANK

The sun had gone to pay our bill in the fog bank
The world foggily crawled into the strong rooms
Darkness demonstrated her strong mindfulness
Provided for the strong gale with lurking shrieks

The black paint billers snowballed to our dreams
With the bill of exchange for wild sunny excesses
Ghostly bats emerged with the bill of indictment
In demonstration of our acrophobic dispositions

We packaged the sunrays for our folk memories
To reassure the day of our eternal followerships
We cherish our follow-throughs in our dark beat
To usher the sunlight out of the hollow fog bank

676. THE PROTRACTED INTERNECINE FEUD

These things had happened before we were born
Like sulphur deep into our fresh hearts they burn
Now we stumble on the bumpy terrains in horror
Like one frightened by ghosts in a standing mirror

The internecine feud has razed our men of valour
With their carcasses dumped in their cold parlour
Our community cattle graze in the barren pasture
Like the unrepentant sinners awaiting the rapture

For our plight the once glorious sky is grown pale
Like the ***** fetching territorial waters with pail
The storms have rolled off the catalogues for rain
All our efforts to mop up the mess end up in vain



677. THE AREA LEADERS

They cracked coconuts on the heads for the crown
And embraced our days with their castaway pollen
Sadness and sorrow have dyed our garment brown
With the strongest song sung when night has fallen

These are the blinding dusts from our barn’s grains
They breed cunning serpents in the soft pasturages
They are failed cargoes on our broad societal trains
They dedicate our common committee to outrages

Now our days seek deliverance from their tentacles
Like the colourful fields immersed in gloomy beauty
They play our eyeballs with the stenciled spectacles
With our consciences to sight and found us off duty

To rescue us the colossal clouds were born gadarene
Our communal life was willed to pageants of gaieties
Then moonlight stories held us for a larger gathering
Now all the objects we sight dress up like cold deities

678. THE LAST DESCENDANTS

The rapacious thunderstorms ***** the skies for their tears
The hot embers were born to glow mourning the late forest
The moon crawled out of the blue like a great grandmother
Cuddling her descendants wrapped up in her ancient shawls

The wild waves were weird weavers weaving withering wails
The captioned wigs gyrated on stunning shoes upon auctions
The little creatures crouched in primeval baskets of the night
To gnaw at the generational tubers in the creative farmlands

The dazzling specimens of dentitions relaxed in water basins
Like bright red artistic architectures on potent ocean boards
Golden hearts glow in the threatening prisms of the furnace
As beautiful sunset defines her beauties in her nightly corset

It had been a sweet pill for the past descendants to swallow
Depending on the colonial masters for loaves, lore and lures
Our creativity had been packaged in their mortal depravities
Like the tranquil days resting sorrowfully upon the dark oars

The centenarian thunders downgraded our minute whispers
We had been kept upon our toes by the eternally sworn foes
At last our worthy artworks have worn their wormy catwalks
The refreshed dawns greet our easting days in their greenery



679. VICTIMS IN THE VALLEY

The victims in the dark rally
Caged, dried and browning
Therein their meanings tally
With waves born drowning

In the depth of a cold valley
Horrible nobles are cultures
Like pilgrims in the dark alley
Willed to ravenous vultures

The victims all robed in tears
With hearts like potter’s clay
For pains they have no fears
Only mimed games they play

For victory awaits the victims
Alien to a blind mimed game
Glorious are eternal rhythms
For death Christ died to tame

680. THE GIANT SCARS

These are our giant threatening scars
Engraved on our demonstrative heads
Our sympathies crawled on superstars
Weeping for us on their moonlit beds

They threatened us with nasal sounds
Like thunderclouds seasoned to burst
For us their galleries are out of bounds
Behind the iron bars plagued with rust

Our patience passed their wildest tests
Like the lions roaring in the thick jungle
On the heart of the Lord our faith rests
Like numbers posted on the right angle

681.  A LADY

In a lady’s handbag
Is her hidden hunchback
Stuffed with her heart ache
For the pains relieving groom

In a lady’s tender smile
Is hidden miles of similitude
Marked with the zebra crossings
For the ever winning marathoner

In a tender lady’s heart
Is hidden her cowboy’s hat
Soaring within the white clouds
To soothe the earth with the latter rains

682. BRING BACK OUR GIRLS

Bring back our homesick girls
Their vacant cradles are bleeding
Bring back our innocent girls
On the chariots of fire descending

Bring back our suckling girls
Their feeding bottles are weeping
Bring back our infant girls
Their mothers’ ******* are heavy

Bring back our harmless girls
The united universe is thundering
Bring back our dewy girls
In the sharp sun rising in the skies

Bring back our beautiful girls
Like light plucked from darkness
Bring back our glorious girls
Aboard the shore-bound waves

Bring back our worthy girls
On their fresh faces our lights seek to glow
Bring back our living girls
Our fountains of joy are bubbling to burst

For our returned girls the skies shall bear
Roaring rivers, singing seas, chiming clouds
With gongs and songs, pianos and praises
Dulcet dulcimers and documentable dances
With healthy hymns and eloquent embraces
All nations shall into a common cathedral flow

683. ****** GENEOLOGIES

They electrify their demonic high tables with old fears
Only their ****** genealogies are bookmarked to reign
The sight of their portables whetted our eyes to tears
We are reinforced by the clouds born to the later rain

Our skins have renovated the sickening cattle wagons
With our dreams flying upon huge smokes in the skies
Beneath their tables we abridge their creaking jargons
Upon their floors with our generational landmark tiles

The dew drops dropped like old crops upon our brows
To soften the veils falling to the flaming edged swords
The flaming hearted sword of the penetrating sunrays
Born to pluck us alive from our hotly bandaged bruises

684. LET US SPEAK UP

The light is climbing downstairs
And danger is sprouting abroad
Our feet are listening for a word
Let us speak up lest they go deaf

The light is melted on the glades
And terror grazing our eyelashes
Our feet are listening for a word
Let us speak up lest they go deaf

The light is late and lately buried
The mourners are on danger list
Our feet are listening for a word
Let us speak up lest they go deaf

The light has divorced the grave
Her grave clothes are dew dyed
Our feet are listening for a word
Let us speak up lest they go deaf

Silence is a forgotten tombstone
Lost in the din of cold morticians
Our feet are listening for a word
Let us speak up lest they go deaf

685.  THE SUN

The sun smiles on all prescriptively
Like the waves spreading on shores
The green grass glows descriptively
Like the full moon upon dark sores

The sun is a tailor fixing the buttons
Preparing the sky for incoming stars
Like the weaverbird weaving cottons
To conceal the day’s damnable scars

The sun is a marker on diurnal pages
Tall grace he bestows on the flowers
The sun retains his graces for all ages
Bees and butterflies are his followers

Our common laughter is endangered
When sun bows down in big setbacks
All mortals have the starlets fingered
When the night comes on drawbacks

686. UNTIL HERE

(For Lou Lenart and his team)

Their floods came seeking Jewish bloods
Like streams they roared for our dreams
They emerged as columns of soldier ants
Like whirlwinds they zoomed towards us

Until here we were crumbs for the reptiles
Until here we were like airborne cloudlets
But here the sudden change unveiled to us
From here the elusive victory embraced us

With skeletal jets we fought like bold lions
Soared like eagles and spoke like thunders
We conquered columns of invading armies
The bleeding armies turned back and blank

From here we turned from victims to victors
From here enemies’ defeat our greatest feat
Upon this memorable bridge it all happened
Victories leapt upon our pool like joyful frogs

687.  JOY UNLIMITED

The fledging sun offers its rays
And the rays offer golden trays
For our joy a platform to spray
Rowdy paratroops like thunder
To scoop roses from pure oasis

Our joy is ripe upon celebrations
Our celebrations with decorations
Decorations with documentations
Documentations for all generations
Generations in our joyful habitations

688. ANOTER RAINING DAY

The dark clouds are wandering river basins
Spiral bounded by breakable outer casings
The rivers and the seas display empty cups
For the swift blessings descending the tops

The rains come as defense troops’ missiles
And the drowning lands look like imbeciles
Now we are groaning in the watered claws
With the liberated scales marking our flaws

The retreating clouds crawl away in a belch
Dumping the missing cargoes on the beach
The winds bow in a state of shock in a cord
Praying and fasting for a visit from the Lord

689. GRANDMOTHER

Grandmother, please wake and get up
The sky is quarreling with her husband
Soon they will spill their freezing sweat
On our bodies for us to catch dead cold

Grandmother, please sneeze not louder
The sky and her husband are quarreling
Soon they will send old floods like gales
To sweep mankind away from the world

Grandmother, you are everything I have
My moon, my sun and my morning stars
Provoke not the couples with your cough
Lest they refill their greasily wraths again

Grandmother, the big reptiles have come
With their lethal grandchildren following
They are laced with secret burial shrouds
With sympathetic tears tearing their eyes

Grandmother, I kiss you a shaky goodbye
With broken pains roaring within my soul
Grandmother, where are your groundnuts
To conduct my solo heart as you sing away

690.  A NIGHT WALK THROUGH THE FOREST

Lured away on an alluring dream by fables
I trudged along the grassy paths with fears
Upon my steps spilling the prevailing dews
The shadows bowed their heads in silence
Like the soul issued with a death sentence

The night crawlers emerged above boards
Throwing light upon contrary communities
In their hearts and eyes were painful tears
Crawling down their exaggerated eye *****
Like a handbag filled with rotten cosmetics

The shadows were bold animators’ shelves
Stage managing the horror motion pictures
In the ghostly commodities I met wild hosts
Lifeworks evaporated from my fresh breath
Like foreign tragedies in common comedies

The sorrowful shadows cast away their veils
Like the candles letting go of the weird wax
Sadly I sat in the sack for conflicting fetuses
Another sun appeared like a serial divorcee
Counting the testicles of another naked day

691.  SUBJECTIVE SUBJECTS

The sad sun descended upon her haunting melodies
Reeling from mysterious layers for electoral riggings
To harden the flowerbed for flower girls born tender
Disenfranchised voters came weeping in barren polls
Dressing the blank nest for the fat electoral parodies
With the mourners the faulty bells they came ringing
Like the angry water castigating a ****** port fender
And the smokes climbed upon their wide aerial poles
Arching over the emptied shelves with liberal singing
They subjected their subjective subjects to all objects

We built this house. We eat watermelon on the floor, spitting seeds across a shooting range measured by the planks in the floor.

We built this house. We spill barbeque sauce while trying to make pizza and lick it from each other like wild animals, we are free.

We built this house. We drink our coffee cold. We’re too busy looking at each other to drink it hot. I guess we’re admiring the temperature of each other instead.

We built this house. My eyes are the color of the garden you gave me, watered by the April showers of tough times. Flowers come in spring.

We built this house. Your eyes fell from the stars, your dreams stayed there, never to come back down.

We built this house. We dance in our underwear as we pack away our scars, the scars that don’t scream,

we can walk away from this quietly.

We have never loved each other more than this moment, but now this moment has passed. We sit across from each other in more April showers, flowers come in spring. We sit on the wrong sides of the table. Packing our scars into separate boxes, they scream. We keep them quiet.

If Christ can move stone to forgive our sins, why can’t we?

Rip open the scars that scream, pack them with the dirt of a grave, you are ready to let them die. You are ready to plant seeds. Flowers come in spring. We don’t wait for healing to find us. We have risen from the ground and better **** well act like it. You water flowers, not leave. Regrowth happens in spring.
We are spring.
We are spring.

We built this house.

I sat and watched a bug crawl across your skin
From your leg to your hand to your wrist,
to the scars up your arm.

Scars I’ve never noticed,
Scars that look familiar,
Scars that amount to more than mine.

And I looked to see that
My skin appeared to be held together by spiderwebs.

I felt ugly.
I felt human.

And then the sun shone brighter
and I was a million little stained glass pieces.

A million little stained glass pieces held together by spiderwebs.

I folded into myself and
tried to listen to the choir sing
But they were too far away.

I was alone.
I knew you were too.

Alone with the sunshine. Alone in our stained glass.

I just sat there in the grass,
folding and unfolding.
Letting the sun shine into me.

To be under our skin and
To see the way all our little fragments shone.
I wonder how we would look turned inside out.