Physical pain
is a restrain
on the human mind

Try and take a hit
see if you like it
But beware of what you find

When running from the black
escaping from the dark
Look out of what lies ahead

Is it really comfortin'
cutting your own skin
Or is just a shade of red?

What is so scary in the blue
when looking on the lines you drew
That you finally seem calm?

Does the pain allow you not feel yellow
just like an old fellow
Because of this power in your palm?

Or does it ease your mind
off the life you left behind
And is the solution you could find?

I've found the strongest poems to be the product of
a purge of emotions that reign so ******* the heart that they
pull at the fingers, draining energy from the tips
as every word falls onto the paper,
relentlessly.

I've felt the hollow shatter of a thousand nights of heartbreak,
the kind that only poetry can seem to glue back together
even if temporarily.
The words on the page, unfiltered
broadcast thoughts of late summer days and first loves,
first losses,
our wrists ache with rememberence as our hearts empty out.

We lose what we thought we still held to our souls
as the sentences unfold and we are finally able to articulate
what it means to be without,
what it means to be empty.
Those lines are but udnerstanding, full of compassion that we have still, hidden away in our hearts for the day they start beating again.


Why are the richest of poems products of the poorest of days,
and why can I write nothing anymore
as my heart feels full, for once, again?