"unhealable" poems
The King of Kings,
That's what he is called.
He made big empires
And won all his brawls.
His mighty strength
Could change the epics
In all the directions
Were his relics .
His pride was too much high ,
To be conquered by anyone .
His empire was in his warmth ,
As he was their rising Sun.
In the cry of battle hours,
He crushed all his enemies .
He was truthful and loyal,
But was unaware of his frenemies .
The person he trusted most ,
Gave him an unhealable scar.
No one else than his own brother,
Told him everything is fair in love and war.
In the jail he decided not to mourn.
He was strong willed and stubborn.
He told himself, He will rise high
Because no one can stop the rising sun.
He is the true king of kings ,
Lost All, but not the hope
His determination, will and
Strength marked no stop .
He took a deep breath;
So long that a decade passed.
He returned to silent wrath inside,
To claim the all that honour lost.
He showed them all,
Of what he is made.
Fought and conquered
With the power of blade
Again he proved it;
And returned to throne.
Determination, Morality and hope,
Are a King's real Crown.
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 11:57 AM UTC
You are in as little a hurry
This morning
As you've ever been.
Re-engage your safety.
Holster your stress.
Your car is a gun.
Your key the trigger.
Two ton hollow-points flying
Down every street in the world; lead
In search of potential tissue.
The father witnessed his own heart
-Shape and weight of a five-year-old-
Break into molecules midplay
On the parking lot
Under a blind reverse.
Perhaps the groceries blocked her view.
Clip emptied in a split second.
Your car is a gun.
Your car is a gun, a child's tunnel vision
As narrow as the barrel of a .22.
Aim carefully, away from people.
Squeeze, don't pull. You hold lives with
Your steering wheel. Destinies under your feet.
Every turn you make has room for tragedy.
Your car is a gun.
A hot, smoking gun.
You are in as little a hurry
This morning
As they are to put something so
Small in the ground
And return with heavy unhealable hearts
To a house
That won't see them smile
For another five.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 12:46 AM UTC
My wall was not always stained red;
the map that hangs upon it has bled
from state and country and continent,
the scarlet of a million lives
seeped through porous paper skin,
akin to the breached security of violated hearts,
severed arteries never to be rejuvenated
with the livelihood of broken nations -
left to weep,
wounds unhealable in the pained whirlpool of terror and tragedy.
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 10:40 PM UTC
Mankind is bleeding inside,
and we pretend that we don't know why,
we are the creators of our own demise.
Our scars continue to grow,
and become unhealable,
like death, we're the black crow.
When will someone reveal,
that we steal human life.
It can't be any more obvious,
we are deaths kiss,
open your eyes!
Open your eyes!
We take,
****
pillage and more.
We treat nature like she's our *****
Pollute,
salute,
support the corporation.
It's most likely run by another nation.
When we,
fall into the sea,
and leave behind,
no trace of mankind,
then nature will be free.
Only then,
Mother Nature will be free...
Open you eyes!
Open your eyes!
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 10:33 PM UTC
There is a rot within my bones,
an infection forcibly injected,
a spread of sludge whose origins
are drenched in impunity.
I did not know I was whole
until my wholeness was preyed upon;
did not know I was a country
until unwillingly colonized.
I did not know what silence meant
until it became obligation over option;
did not know I could be spoken for
by someone who’s asked me no questions.
I never questioned who I was
until others proved what they are not
and now there is a rot in my bones,
irreversible, unhealable, all encompassing.
I am defined by my rot,
named by an unspeakable sludge,
unseen until the mirror cracks,
until I am no longer the only one looking back
Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 1:31 PM UTC
from words you say,
to the things that
you do just
to joke on me
they leave an
unhealable scare
etched upon
my aching heart
a thousand feelings
bottling up, inside
of me,
a time bomb
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 9:20 PM UTC
You're going to meet your first, your January.
He'll end it coldly, with no emotion.
You two had sparks. You thought everything was okay... It wasn't.
Then,you'll find February. He's similar to January, except he actually loves you. He gives you so much time. A little too much time. He starts to drown you in his words and in his thoughts. You barely get your own time. You eventually ended things with him, and found yourself march.
March wasn't anything special to you. He was just a filler. You still missed January.
Then you found April. He took you on many dates and tried to woo you. He found someone better. Like January did.. Like you were trying to do.
May. God was May attractive. He was a bitter idiot though. He was one of those people who tried to be smart but just failed. If he didn't talk you two could've lasted.
The flowers were in your hair, and June loved that about you. June wasn't an ordinary person. He loved doing wacky things to make you smile. June wasn't January. June asked you why you were still hung up on a guy who never even wanted you in the first place. June left you for a better being, but he was right.
Well, July was a piece of **** okay. He told you that you looked fat. A. Lot. He hit you. But that was July.
August saw July hurt you. Now August holds you and keeps you happy. He lifted his arm one night, and you flinched. August cried. August began to treat you like an unhealable wound and it wasn't working for you two.
September was passionate. He was a reader, you loved that. On your birthday, He baked you a cake and showed you what it was like not to hurt. Along the road to making you happy, September found himself in writing... He never had any time to be with you and you couldn't stand it.
Somewhere along the line, you met October. He was grand. He was always being spontaneous. Like when he surprised you and left you.
Oh Boy, then November.. you don't know how you and him got together. You didn't want to be mean though. You tried it. He eventually made you very sick. Like, he tried to poison you with pineapples. Ahhh, Love.
Finally, you found your perfect december. He kissed those wounds that had been made & took you into his arms. you two danced to a coldplay song and that's when he asked you.. He asked you to be his as long as you could.
Most importantly.
He asked you to forget about January.
"The only way this could ever end is if you didn't forget about him."
I still think of the one love that broke me the most.
A skin of blue and black, that had been beaten and battered had finally found their 01, and only.
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 11:15 AM UTC
I change my colors every day.
From a morose and gloomy orange to a silver shining gray.
A chameleon is what I am, indelible.
I was born to alter, somewhat unhealable.
The colors adjust to everyone’s care.
In the morning sunset, I match the goldish orange air.
Blending into the fauna and flora,
My shades not too bright, so I blend seamlessly with the Roman aurora.
Trying not to try too hard,
So I can’t be harassed by the rest of the yard.
At midnight I relocate,
Even if it is oh so late.
While walking, my skin changes,
Which means it’s the moon that ranges.
From a soft orange to a glowing shade of gray —
It’s my shame that I convey.
It’s my dishonor that holds me back from being the brightest peony in the flowerbed.
It’s my own thorns from which every day I bled.
My own fault, because peonies don’t have thorns.
The other florals always have something that adorns.
At least it seems that way.
But they only ever saw the light of day.
Apr 15, 2025
Apr 15, 2025 at 2:25 PM UTC
A summer evening in late June, light paling into dusk and colours lessen
Rattles from the kitchen as the ritual teas are prepared
I sit making a cardigan for a baby’s birth-
Knowing what it is to be a mother, I think of she who will carefully fasten the buttons
She who will, like me, cry at the news nowadays and lay her hands on a softly breathing body to find peace
Here I sit, fingers hitching and flicking the yarn between needles
Knitting is a kind of prayer
Each stitch a supplication. Each turn a fresh appeal:
Let this mother meet her baby.
Let this mother meet herself, arriving
The prayer grows, row by row
This mothering is an unhealable wound
This mothering is a cardigan, made to fasten.
Aug 16, 2022
Aug 16, 2022 at 4:59 PM UTC
Grievous and unhealable
That which was my life
Was nothing
But an axe wound
And now it's curious
And without reason
That because of you
I can still smile
Aug 24, 2021
Aug 24, 2021 at 10:18 AM UTC
Can my wounds be clothed
By the sands of time?
My dirt be cleansed
By its flowing stream?
My crimes forgotten
By its weathered hand?
Then tell me—
Which amount of days
Can mend my lies?
Which amount of weeks
Can dry their cries?
Which amount of years
Can let the pain die?
Please…
Tell me if time
Can truly do this.
Jun 9, 2025
Jun 9, 2025 at 3:31 PM UTC