"weaning" poems
I am anorexic
Not that you see that or anything
Not yet
I look healthy
Jubilant
Happy
You think that all the problems stopped after
You took
Tumblr away from me
It didn't
If anything things got worse
Progressively Slowly
But steady and sure
So here I am
Weaning my stomach and mind
Off of the food I
Gorged on previously
And I have found myself
Not losing weight
Which is depressing
And sad
Especially to me
Because more extreme measures
Are going to be taken
Measures that you won't know about either
But as long as I can see my hips
Then I am happy
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 10:21 PM UTC
What reason do we have to be angry.
What reason do we have to curse the stars
and all the threads that bind them.
Who's fault apart from ours is it,
that this is the hell that we have placed ourselves amidst.
Every point in our lives,
lying like a checkpoint,
glowing like a streetlamp in the dead of night.
At the feet of these golden warm, welcoming lights there lay a crossroad.
And we foolish children feeble in heart and mind fumble without a further thought.
We follow our hearts and we follow them into deep into the disguising dark.
-
Adventure was the death of us, antagonizing.
Adventure was heartache,
agony as evil wizards warped our worlds until we were weaning.
It wasn't too late before the brazen beasts had burdened our lives with ever more brutality.
Wolves hungry for the hearts of men, walking on hind legs to better hinder us with horrors.
This world is beautiful with wonder,
but it's wonders are like lights
upon the Lophiiformes head.
Bright, beautiful and inviting
But lead with haste into the jaws of oblivion,
well hidden amongst the dark.
N.H.
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 10:15 AM UTC
Never have I been the best at hiding how I feel. There is no peaceful game. My face reveals the truth. Never to be doubted. Nothing left to wonder. Still, I reign it in. I stifle my reality in an attempt to keep you close. So tender-hearted beneath that thickening shell. The shell I penetrated somehow. Once you found me in your heart, you pushed with all your might. Trying to get me out. I cannot be budged. Yet, I am not free to love you. You refuse to let me be yours in theory or practice. You love me, but not by choice. Fear of the possibility of pain keeps you at bay. Yet saving yourself from pain has deemed my own inconsequential. For running from me pulls out my heart.
**Pushing me away
What's best, or just what's easy
Burns holes in my soul**
Not one to take the easy way out. Suffering to love you. There is no expectation of love requited. There is nothing but a dream, part memory part wishful thinking. Hot needles still poke at me, slowly breaking me down. Weakening my very being with the sharp jabs of stinging words or careless action, or worse...absolute inaction. I have learned to stop expecting the "Morning Sunshine" or "'Night Darlin'" that used to brighten each day. Those thoughtless things, the tiny nothing things that let me know I was on your mind. So far from nothing those nothings were. Days and nights seem incomplete in their absence. Weaning to make your days bearable makes mine unendurable, empty, and melancholy has come to underlie all things.
**Joy of love melts ice
Heat smothered by a tear cloud
Threadbare soul survives**
Challenges faced sideways leave blind spots. Choices made by indecision. Letting mistakes be made, watching as they choose wrong. I see the truth and know what I know. Everything is aligned for my own misfortune. For as a bystander, I lay no claims. Anything I do will hasten the inevitable. So I let the weaning drip down to nothing. Reluctantly I watch as you disappear with my heart in hand. I stood firm as you ran away in place. You turned to me, you needed me, you loved me. As the clouds dissipate and the sun creeps over the horizon, With the blue sky I turn to mist. Slowly fading to the past. A ghost of could've been, used to be, and never was
**Surrender takes time
Reluctantly relinquished
I will fight no more**
Oct 7, 2011
Oct 7, 2011 at 12:36 AM UTC
Thoughts tempered with the fires of life,
dreams of youth vanquished, replaced by reality.
Happily ever after endings, an illusion we’ve been nursed on,
lives spent weaning ourselves away.
New paths uncharted and unfamiliar,
fear and doubt direct our moves, beyond world’s end.
Holding on to what we know, sacrificing what could be,
unknowingly binding ourselves to our past.
Can I find the clue to guide my way,
someone to lead me forward to my future?
Let me feel renewed and alive,
so I search beyond my limits for my life in you.
Aug 22, 2012
Aug 22, 2012 at 12:28 PM UTC
I use the word sin
In metaphor;
For I don't believe
Anymore
That there's a
Heaven or a Hell
Or a creator.
I say, "Thank God"
Facetiously;
For an open mind
Unleashes me
From placing my
Gratitude
With a magic dude.
I say, *******
Because people get offended,
Even though blasphemy
Is not what I intended.
The aesthetic appeal
Is just so splendid;
Two words juxtaposed,
So tenderly blended.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 12:34 AM UTC
3 hands
kidding hands,
an autocorrection title,
was supposed to be
kissing hands but either works
man overcome with an elixir of Sunday bed warming/charming/chilling, lukewarm "hot" coffee,
melodious love songs inducing
languorously hand-to-mouth,
five finger fore play love making
a potpourri of knuckle gnawing and gentling kisses
upon a hand borrowed from the a tablet holder,
while she reads the paper bemoaning the sorry state
of the world, the government permissions bad guys...
and weeps for the world we are leaving behind
a mood changer with 100% effectiveness
newspapers- a safe *** condiment
think I'll reheat my coffee
<•>
my hand
she cant sleep knows that I'm up at 2:08am composing.
and showed her earlier today
the kidding hands poem
just as the lights were going down, downtown on
William's Measure For Measure
so at 2:09am her hand snakes over and wrap itself
around my thumb as if she was weaning an infant from
what infants like doing, or weaning grownup old men like me from doing at 2:09am, what they should be best leaving alone,
like writing poetry or it could just be the woman
pseudo-sucking a poets thumb as a way of saying
can't sleep head buzzing and in between I love the
livening lying of living with your hands thumb in me
<•>
the facement of your hands
dr. mandy is handy with a needling drink of boo boo bo-toxin
that auto corrects the face's reflecting times drawing upon it,
our bodies facement; an effacement I suppose, or maybe a
defacement.
very little to be done to keep the hands couture covering
from revealing what devolutionary year it is for you: why I write of the facement of your hands and why I kiss them, your hands,
lovingly, hoping the natural toxins on my lips can ****** their aging,
and if they can't, then it is a great way of saying
I love you
<•>
2:53am
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 3:00 AM UTC
1
The Clowns in Brussels Sprouts
have sent me a notebook. Tossers.
The latest thrilling instalment from ******** Creek.
The Animal Events Recording Notebook —
fits in your pocket,
if it happens to be a school bag.
A little picture on the cover
Jack, the farmer, a cow and her calf.
Equally gay as it is oxymoronically inaccurate.
No sign of a tag on either the cow or calf.
The cow has a pair of horns
that would **** any animal, never mind the farmer,
statistically dead. Plus,
the calf’s a bit too healthy looking
and the cow ain’t trying to **** the farmer either.
Between the covers coloured-coded sections
chronicling the animal’s progress
from Foetus to Fork.
2
Though, I do thoroughly enjoy filling out those
additional comment columns.
De-horning
Next to castrating lambs,
I love this job —
all-the-more if there’s a gang.
The first has no idea what coming
and the last wishes they weren’t.
But seriously, I’d say it hurts.
A lot.
Castration
See Revival, issue 6 P.14 —
revised in Inheritance P.26
Weaning
Always good for poem.
I laugh from the comfort of my bed.
Ye’re only halfway lads
And how far along are you?
They inquire back.
3
Ok, I get it. Seriously.
Stop depleting the rainforests please …
I have my own notebook thanks.
I understand their dilemma.
They fear mindsets will be inherited
form the old flock, the old stock —
the canners and brass tags —
who never converted.
It’s like auld women and the church
engrained since birth
and no amount of jibber-jabber will sway.
So they concentrate, groom us
weanling growing up
in the Age of A.I.M
on BETTER Farms
4
Regardless, the second you tag a calf,
the cunt’ll croak. So wink, wink:
so not to jinx yourself
and have to write a cheque;
adjust your Balance Sheet,
invariably affecting your Gross Margin.
I know … I know
S.M.R 6, 7 and all that $*@#
But it’s so cold the frost is complaining.
Plus, they said on the radio: be kind
leave food out for the birds.
I’m just thinking of the foxes.
And, if anyone asks —
she never came in calf
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 2:27 PM UTC
The ancestral diet of Stars, being Other Stars
has left no scars, save open black and yawning vast.
No retrograde Oblivion... only galactic swirls
and elastic Space between worlds. that never last.
and Eternity.
my modernity nips and pleats my yellow teeth
after long whitening by paste and bristle. i chew the gristle
of the dead sow
and club the weaning pups of Cerberus
with an eyelash and a long blink.
i tread the narrows, flatly -
and conquer the quizzical conundrums
by simply asking.
My Rocket Science... laughing
at your grecian urn
to paint the herrings red.
i'm out of my depth.
but yes means 'yes' and we ' no' it.
if Nothing else.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 10:32 PM UTC
I’ve been struck down again,
fully aware it’s my own doing.
Do you have a heart you can lend?
Mine’s drying from the taping and the glueing.
Oh my darling, oh my darling,
oh my sweet Clementine,
are you smiling or are you snarling,
more importantly are you mine?
Outside the window seasons blend,
the temperature holds no meaning.
I notice the change and the trend,
to ignore the withdrawals from weaning.
Oh my darling, oh my darling,
oh my sweet Clementine,
you’ve been avoiding and been barring,
but you can’t severe this line.
The stronger the initial fear
usually means the most is at stake,
and trying to prevent a single tear
can lead to the worst heartbreak.
Those who leave the best memories
usually leave us with the most hurt,
you know we can’t just live life with ease,
there needs to be some blood on a white shirt.
You can try to completely forget someone,
but putting that effort in means you’re actually fixated more,
and after all is said and done,
honestly who do you wish to be behind that door?
Oh my darling, oh my darling,
oh my sweet Clementine,
is it cleansing or more harming,
to live in denial all the time?
Oh my darling, oh my darling,
oh my sweet Clementine,
when it’s finished it’ll be starting,
and I’ll stand under the Montauk sign.
Feb 19, 2019
Feb 19, 2019 at 7:07 AM UTC
Then again, your Trek for the World resume
Since Two Million Tweets placed your Scales on Top
For the Plym's Fine Arts deny their Bid consume
By Theories bid on your Commitments flop
Though demanding may be your Prime Support
Which most would Bellow your Extracted Youth
Would one Understand these Issues report
Beyond such Volumes of your Weaning Truth
After all, Tweens do tend to Toast the Shows
Then let Moralled Queries compound Debate
Since Youth the Adult's Pad much Air would blow
Then burst borne Viruses and Flies too late.
Such they Prevent - your Groupie's Quarantine
To Sand your Frame preserve Smooth and Pristine.
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
The ten commandments say nothing,
in the translations I’ve read,
against coveting my neighbor’s good
fortune,
timing,
intentions,
sense of style,
or the countless other intangibles
gifted by Nature
and our DNA's mischievous inventions.
I’m a strict constructionist,
when it suits me, and especially so
with documents carved in stone
by invisible hands
having no recorded fondness for the market.
I’d trade places with any nameless witch
caught cavorting in her coven’s canopied oases,
their cauldron-ringing capers
and care-free cackles cheered
by owl hoots and cricket song;
Or the smallish, self-sacrificing spider
who rather than a cigarette gets a close-up
view of his mate’s spinnerets dispensing
the silk sheets to wrap him
as a happy meal deferred.
I also envy their creepy hatchlings
who weeks later will climb to the tip-tops
of firry fingers, cast a single wistful thread
and wait for the wish-fulfilling wind
to carry them lifetimes away.
That’s how I could stiff this chill
that taps me on the shoulder, and chase
after a far-off warmth I’ve weened
since my weaning was done.
I count these covets no sins.
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 6:37 AM UTC
*I had a conversation with my father but no words were said.
I've asked him for answers before,
and I still have the feeling embedded in my head that
Some sense of clarity, I will be fed.
Some speak to God in hopes that the right light will shine upon the dark places in their lives
To show true meaning.
Sometimes I'm slowly weaning, off of my habits that are detrimental,
That mask the fundamental issues behind my problems.
Right now I may sound feeble and weak,
But I seek,
Because I'm not sure that it's just that me can solve them.
I live the life of an in-the-know outsider,
Yet I feel so far behind in a society full of people wearing blinders.
Is it just that I'm in a rut?
Or am I only half-living, with eyes wide shut?
I know what's wrong,
But I don't feel I am strong enough to set the stage.
It's as if I'm waiting for something so radical to hit me in the face to spark the necessary change.
Strange isn't it?
I mean the solutions are so simplistic.
It's hard even admitting these things being one usually so realistic.
But on the contrary I have been known to manipulate my reality with conflicts that are imaginary.
Acknowledging contradictions are comparable to a prescription for the soul,
One spot higher on the stairs.
Self-improvement can take it's toll, but we don't carry on without repairs.
This life happens so fast that in a flash you might've missed it.
So I'm holding on,
To this pencil and the art of right now.
I feel I must do what I can,
and keep faith that fulfillment can be achieved, somehow.
Whatever comes my way though, I absolutely cannot retreat,
Because there's no telling when I too, shall inevitably rest in peace.*
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 6:22 PM UTC
i felt a real feeling as my heart turned from healing
to a sickness so real that it dripped from the ceiling
sealed fates and doorways, i felt my skin peeling
and it felt so revealing
...it felt so revealing
i felt a doom creeping in with the moon, looming
like the gloom soaking up all the air in the room
it was moving in too, blooming like it was due
and i still had no clue
...i still had no clue
this torture brought forth fortresses of remorse
so coarse my pores filled with fear and with force
and the doors stored more still yet to explore
but it came from what source
..it came from what source
my thoughts fell through hell to break out of this shell
i felt my cells tell me something fell through the well
i knelt down, felt around and was not where i dwell
could this be something else
could this be something else
i felt death as it crept into my bed as i slept
and i felt the cold sweat building up on my neck
as i wept and i felt like i took the next step
and it felt so adept
...it felt so adept
and to my surprise my eyes widened in size
disguised lies and flies buzzing silenced my cries
as i try to find why beyond files and sighs
i am lost in reprise
...lost in reprise
the parting of dark arts and of blind shopping carts
we throw darts at old hearts and hark pointless remarks
we barter with charts of love broken apart
and we're back to the start
...we're back to the start
it's lost all its meaning either fleeting or leaning
the towers bleed first feeding greed with their weaning
breeding keen seeds all teaming with loss and still reaming
but maybe we're just dreaming
...maybe we're just dreaming
the haze fades to gray, raves and won't float away
braiding fame, combing banes into fake lion manes
raining plague upon grains until no plain remains
and it's always the same
...it's always the same
what you do is too crude to let life ensue
it takes truth to break through the new sky that you drew
you flew it out to the new coast and blew it up too.
now there's nothing to do
...there's nothing to do
again i felt death creeping in as i slept
the bitter cold sweat building up on my neck
as it swept through i felt like we took our last step
the world took its last breath
...it took its last breath
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 4:51 PM UTC
i fear lacuna boring holes in eyes,
the pen in hand no longer draws meaning.
a void inverted presents my demise,
from all creation i have been weaning.
conjuring up an original thought
proves no simpler than anything before.
lack of inspiration; lust starts to clot,
innovation oozing from every pore.
racking my brain for words to fill the page.
line after line after endless blank space.
hours post-brooding, spark flies from its cage;
notions pour, ideas begin to race.
bottled emotions pour from my heartstrings,
beginning to end spilling perfect form.
the necessary release of feelings;
letting go of my own personal storm.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 11:08 AM UTC
#Fake news indeed:
Is this a fox in the hen-house or a hoax in the fun-house ?
It’s news to them that it’s views from us. Weaning ourselves tit-for-tat while we wet-nurse the networks net-worth, they pull the wool over their own press-cards, spinning yarns fit to knit a seamless weave of tailored narrative (free alterations post-laundering, free press with dry-cleaning). Ironing out the irony, the ship of state suddenly mixes metaphors: a freak gyre of Greek fire, leak-proof talking points for caulking joints on a sinking vessel, a showboat floating fake liars, gloating, into lakes of fire. Let us light a naked fuse to the faked news until their networks ignite like an information overload. Fake news indeed. News to me…
now watch them form a phalanx as we farm the faux links.
Dec 5, 2016
Dec 5, 2016 at 9:47 PM UTC
#1.....His Bearer's Plea.
What would it cost to send a million dogs to war,
Than turn my babes into raging Beasts?
Leave the Boys to grow and revel in age.
Leave them strapped to their mothers *****
until nature run's its course and calls them MEN.
Without guns,rage and War pivoting that stage.
Too many broken Boys parole as Men,
building bridges without appeasing the gods below.
Too many hold life at its helm,
boasting of nothing to risk or gain,
Inflicting Pain to ease their pains.
Too many were sucklings before Wars came,
cruelly snatching them from their mothers breast....
handing them guns when milk was what they needed.
#2...His Lover's Plea
What price COULD I have paid to save my lover's head from being Twisted with tales of war?
the man I once knew now resides in a realm of obscurity
dodging reality, dreading emotions, refusing one ness.
A man with hands now Cold,
my skin forgets the prowess they possessed in the past,
a gloomy present looms.
the man whose weaning I continued, now bites hard till my ******* bleed, the taste of blood he now savours.
Cries of war creased the tenderness off my lovers tongue.
What did i owe the earth to be robbed this way?
What kind of man will my children call father?
Well....What will it cost to send a million dogs to war,than deny our babes the privilege to wean until nature calls them MEN?
©Comfort Amiso Pius
2018-08-29
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 11:22 AM UTC
I never thought I would be in this position .
Even considering such a notion.
****** ,the most grotesque of actions,
But it would be a mercy.
Trade the loud intolerable menacing world
for the peace of that dark abyss .
It would just take one maybe two swift strikes
Then life would just drain, then a cold sensation would consume you till your numb.
"That's what I've read",
seems painless enough...
It hurt for a bit but it wasn't the worst of pains
The water is quiet soothing I feel all the aching just wash away smooth as velvet and just as dark
The chill is refreshing, my sight is weaning as is my sense of touch
I let out a sigh.
So tired so..vee-rr..y... t-ii..r...
'this is my saving grace'
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 3:27 PM UTC
An anxiety attack holds the body pressed against a table, unable to even struggle as the ropes pull and fold the layers of your mind like a peeling lable
Cloth begins to cover the exposed skin, over a layer of sweat that starts soaking in, panicked and encased in claustrophobia with weaning breaths that sound out a hallowed hymn
Skin pulled tight along the muscles, layers ripping across the joints like papyrus separating blood vessels, body pressed so tight that straight knees crack with the buckles
Unable to evade the stout flame hooking into the small of your back flaring up to the ceiling charring the body black, its a panic attack that has you trapped
Mummified and cremated without a hope of escape while motivation lays in ashes around the structure left behind in the agony of a triggered perception
All without the grace of an execution outside of this institution, locked away from happy thoughts and depression, the trauma stops only when it waits to feed on the negative pollution.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 8:06 PM UTC
I come from a place
Directed by a man with no front teeth
Who exhales sticky sweet smoke.
I come from a place
Where sobriety is not a default.
Where bad attitude is justified by the number of weeks clean.
I come from a place
That holds words like
methodone clinic
weaning
tapering
crank
I come from a place
where my mental health
is less important
than his.
I come from a place
Where my mother shouts at me,
"It's his fifth week, you have to expect something like this!"
"He's not in the right state of mind right now, let it go!"
"Temper tantrums are to be expected!"
I come from a place
That he leaves.
He goes to
the office
the gas station
get coffee
Because the initials N and A have
become ***** as he becomes clean.
I come from a place
Where addiction is the only "real" mental illness to them.
Where the sounds of pills falling down the drain
are matched with tears falling down a tired woman's face.
(Make that two)
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 10:02 AM UTC
As soon as this Templing Fortitude built
Then rid your Ghost from this Heartened Journey
Cast my Ring to Die; From Magma has Smelt
Once hopeful Anvil hammered on Blarney
The News indeed True. If Rumours conceive
One from your heart led much Secrets adhere
Have our Tongues paid for Lies and Coterie
To issue Swelled Bonds of Pain so severe
PIE and PI - yes - add these Fortiments add
Then power your Fumes for Others to choose
But un-tie Tradition; As Jack's Weaning sad
Framed him the Blamer for Peppers you rue.
So would it make sense your Person I pry
And Cast your Kingdom for your Mental's Fly?
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 4:54 AM UTC
There's a woman whose invisible when I'm awake, she's just a dream of who I chased in life, who's shoulders carried such weight that each step caused a quake, a force of nature is what she is, a new universe, somthing she's ready to charge out and take.
A dream in the night
She's a vision of both light and dark in place where they medley between dimensions, she's the type that always runs away from her family's predictions and has no time for her own admitions, the kind to stay calm when the wind picks up, without a care of the world's intentions, she brings out her poetry book and writes down all her ambitions.
A fire so bright
She has dreams of touching the stars no matter how hot they'd turn out to be, she'd welcome the black fingers and charred palms so long as there's a new horizon to see, new lands to brave, focus frontal and astral dust in her tracks as she speeds across nations and over every sea, never to live a relapse.
A drug without addiction
No dreams of being a cover girl, she enjoys the dirt on her hands and laughter in the air while dancing on expectations of failed people who couldn't bare to dance with someone who just wasn't afraid of the stares, she just brushes it off like autumn leaves in her hair.
A life without conviction
Strong enough to take on a giant but brittle to the touch, she refused help every turn of the way and chose to take the punch, stubborn and reliable, someone who gives all they can even when it ain't much.
Always so strong
She's a dark light in the golden sun with her Auburn hair, pale complexion, and emerald eyes, she's a bright dream in the moonlight with her ruby lips, colorful songs, and complex inquiries into maybes, hows, and whys.
I never thought you could be gone
Everyone has an end like the weaning breath of a dieing dream but no one would have thought a dream would end its self.
Always so wrong
A perfect funeral for an almost perfect person, perfect sounds to describe an almost perfect memory, your smell on my jacket brings the end to an almost perfect day.
A conclusion to your favorite song
You taught the world the meaning of saying goodnight and taught me the meaning of waking up to say, come whatever may, no matter how wrong or right.
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 12:55 PM UTC
My Hands Covered With Dust,
From Molding My Cracked Clay Heart Back Together,
My Chilled Test Tube Full,
From Concocting A Hearty Brew Of Strength,
The Clothes I Wear, Are A Mask And Saftey Pins,
To Hold Myself Together,
When All I Want To Do Is Break,
I Do Not Need An Opinion On My Woes,
Because All Which Fills My Head Is Critisim,
I Do Not Need Words To Heal My Wounds--No!
Enough Words! Words Can Be Beautiful,
But Too Many People Have Been Using This Magic Only To Hurt,
I'm Tired Of Trying To Please Others,
Trying To Appease Anyone In This Hell,
I Have Had Enough Of Telling Myself
Don't Cry, Not Here,
I've Been Doing So Good,
Yet I'm Treated Like I Haven't Been,
Constantly Being Whipped By Venom Covered Spines,
Taking Their Toll--Swimming Through Corrupted Veins,
My Liver Failing From The Poison,
And As I Die In The Weaning Sunlight,
I Am Bitter And I Don't Care
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 5:08 PM UTC
If I’d happened to be someone else
weaning myself dry from my silent spell
may have taken months
waiting for words to
find me again
"It was just a touch"
Find me again
here
drowned in this skin
I used to know before you
chose to
burrow under
Fingers seeping into soil and rooting in
Once
a friend explained her process of
extracting similar roots
like foreign veins
we'd grown accustom to this
The same friend that
smokes herself to sleep in fear
those roots will find her again
By mere sense she learned the mold of mace and
how to wear her Woman in a public space
She demonstrated proper use as
finger wavered trigger--
If I’d happened to be someone else
reconciling air in my lungs
may have taken years
counting up hours into days
buried in a mangled garden of
thoughts
lingering
Nights spent spinning back clock hands--
I mistook unwelcome hands with the gentle brush of a petal
but luckily
orchids grow
and heal
on their own
Luckily I was not someone else--
Someone so used to gardening open wounds that
trauma festers like a patch of weeds
wild and
unforgiving and
when the soil has dried and
sun has silenced into night
the only remedy is to
uproot the vein
If I'd happened to be
someone else
--
c
Jan 24, 2018
Jan 24, 2018 at 3:54 PM UTC