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Nat Lipstadt Nov 2016
~

~ for my knowing friends~





~~~
so simple the notion,
that healing's potent potions
are non-directional portents
coming at you
like a Bob Dylan, Avettt Brothers,
rhythm and rhyme,
tunes injected from the outside knowing,
from the first time
that they were residing inside,
all the time

in, on and under the skin

the conflicted battle rages between the
coursing forces of

I believe

and the low grade infection, incurable return of

faithless disbelief and irreconcilability

a parental entry knowing,
despite different routes of administration,
there is no pharmacology for a limb lost,
any prosthesis healing supplanted
from without,
never achieves
anything approaching next to normal

but from within,
the heart can heal itself,
trying a natural bypass,
doing its imperfect best
to correct the uncorrectable,
resigned to accept the unacceptable

the slight edge felt from
cutting a garden's new growth for replanting
an act of belief in the future,
witnessing a sunset's nightly color sky's return rebirthing,
knowing, admitting to oneself,
that miraculously better than all ever seen prior are

medicines that come from the outside,
and inward bound daily injections,
they are:

"healing, from the inside out...
just as it was meant to be!"
Warning:
any message you send
can and will
be turned into a poem

"this healing, from the inside out...
just as it was meant to be!"
SE Reimer
CC Jul 2016
My behaviour erratic
My speech far from smooth
These days I can't wait to cut down anyone
Who thinks life is a bed of roses on a cloud
Life is not effortless like the rainbow you so seek
These days people are afraid
The spark dying
The fire extinguishable
Do not be depressed from what I say
There is family to hold you up
And words to console
These things are meant to be
There is a correctness in some rare person
But Me? I am far from right
I am twisted
Like a crooked spine, I hurt
If someone out there feels as I do
That no consolation may come due to uncorrectable mistakes
Please let me not feel so alone
Hopeless cases that we are
Erasures all over our life's draft
I can see my follies plain as day
I can see you clearly
There is a correctness in some rare person
Judgement, I pray you be far from swift and close to gentle
I plan to live out my days trying
Best efforts are like flower buds blooming
I plan to be celebrated for my triumphs over my trials
When I have died trying
Choose any poem to read at my funeral
9:39am
Sleepy Sigh Mar 2011
Hey, Achilles, what’s it like
To die from an arrow you didn’t see?
Hey, hey, happy stuttering Hercules
What’s it like to be mad and ****
The woman you love,
The children you love,
What’s it like to watch terror born
On the faces of helpless thousands
And be counted in those thousands
As defenseless? What’s it like,
Hercules, to be loved, to be a hero,
To be unstoppably strong and
Uncorrectable? (In the back of your head
There’s a voice) Pleading with
Wreckage in the making and
Begging your arms not to swing,
Your hands not to squeeze,
Your lungs to stop breathing
Long enough to faint and later wake
With sense and reason?
Do you ever want to die?
No, no. “Dying is for fools,” you say.

You are a legendary fool in paper armor,
Tilting at windmills and running from smiles;
You are happy, blind, and wounded
In the ruins of a diseased world.

— The End —