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Aaron LaLux Oct 2018
She’s got scars on her legs,
calls them battle wounds,
I’ve got the music up way to loud,
so loud we can’t hear our thoughts,

city lights provide the background,
as we lose control and make love,
doing anything to feel anything,
because it’s 2018 and it feels like no one gives a fck,

so we fck,
and after it's said and done she says,
“I don’t usually do this.”,
yeah well we often do things we don’t usually do,

no road home and no rules,
no control no lines no tolls,
keep knocking and you can come in,
but no one’s home,

what’s going on up there,
how can you be so terrifyingly beautiful,
why are you armed with such a stare,
I know you’re a weapon but what do you use it for,

armed to the teeth no bark all bite,
I say she’s a unicorn she says she’s a vampire,
and I don’t fall in love but with this one I just might,
because we better express ourselves before we expire,

got burned from her fire,
but it hurt so good,
like those cuts that we inflicted onto each other,
feeling erratic I guess blame it on the mood,

always ready to talk about anything except the truth,
she says she only lied to me once,
and that was about not liking Ethiopian food,
and I pretend to care but honestly don’t know if I give a fck,

what the fck,
I’m drunk,
and I don’t usually drink,
but I often do things I don’t usually do,

and I don’t mean to be rude,
but I’m not sure I love you,
because even if I did,
I’m not sure it’d matter to you so what’s the use,

you want the truth,
the truth is we’re born alone and we die alone,
and in the middle is where I found you,
and for a moment this runaway thought he'd found a home,

and I wanted us to stay forever in that moment,
laying there naked in each other’s arms,
but you were insecure and covered yourself back up,
because you didn’t want me to see your scars,

you’ve got scars on her legs,
calls them battle wounds,
I’ve got the music up way to loud,
so loud we can’t hear our thoughts,

city lights provide the background,
as we lose control and make love,
doing anything to feel anything,
because it’s 2018 and it feels like no one gives a fck...

∆ LaLux ∆

Melbourne, Australia
October 2018
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
Seeing you again tears at my heart
ripping at old wounds
gaping with hope and sorrow,
emotion screaming out of me
down my face and out of my arms
that long to hold you again.

Don’t you see the pain?
Can’t you feel this chest
that beats without a heart?  
Haven’t you felt this too?
I bleed more each time I see you
Making me weaker to its numbing intoxication.

Letting go, I must find an ending,
But where to start
when the ending is not defined.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
Qweyku Oct 2018
YOU ARE so much more than your wounds,
but when you craft your signature,
your scars share the weight of your pen...

MORE than a conqueror

© Qwey.ku
Marcella Faye Feb 12
When the pen
Hits the paper,
Black ink traces
Around the words
That is crying out.

But the ink
Doesn't want
To stay, and every word
Turns into a pool
Of red.

As it drips down
To the edge
Of the paper,
Like open wounds
Bleeding out the truth.
Instead of words,
Only drips and strains
Of liquid red that coursed
Through its way, like a war
Erupting into chaos.
Steve Page Aug 2018
I'll be completely honest but not completely true 
I'll be true to my heart but not always true to you

some of my words will reflect much of what I feel
while you'll find that other lines are more contrived to conceal

you see a poet can use their words to bear their deepest feeling
but look again and you may see something deeper redder bleeding

read again between the lines of the fresher tender cuts
and you'll brush a slower finger over old wounds long untouched 

you may disturb my untold stories seeping through the pages
and you may find a heart more like your own where an older passion rages
Hidden rages don't often find words
Tara Apr 25
If I added up all my scars,
across my arms and over my hips,
I could stitch them up,
into untold stories and engrave them on my skin,
so everyone could see,
the vulnerability within.

If I spread my wounds across a canvas,
purple, blue, red, and other hues,
creeping on rippled fabric like stars in the night sky,
I’d create galaxies,
with craters, suns and moons,
constellations of healing wounds.
A buzz saw a buzzing
Looking back through time
It's no longer the problem
That I thought it was

The tap-tap-tap of hammer on nails
Sitting here smoking a cigarillo
Drinking iced coffee
And thinking of my prime

I make few friends
Sometimes I can't even trust those
Often they drive up
And want to stay which way and when

I'm having oral *** with my trumpet
While holding hands with the dark
I shout out to the heavens
My eyes so full of stars

I dropped a letter to my Doctor
Giving him my order
Soon I will be flush
Not bothered by anything

I always go through them
Way too fast
Then I sit there in the corner
Licking my wounds
kyle dionysus Jul 2017
You shouldn't be worried about these wounds that you have caused me, even if they are still bleeding, but rather... you should be concerned about the wounds that I am going to cause you, unlike my wounds, yours will never stop bleeding.
jane taylor May 2016
hitherto i naively challenged
my decision to enter an ominous existence
a vicious maze veiled in obscurity
inconceivable to navigate without the accumulation
of bruises, heartache, and psychic mutilation

the torment’s ache so unfathomable
i begged to evaporate beseeching death’s arrival
and with the dexterity of a masterful wizard
i magically spun threads of my shredded soul
into a mangled ball of mental lacerations

then stealthily in the opaque of the night
i rushed the frigid black ocean’s high tide
and deluging myself in the ebony water
i buried the battered ball
now deeply eclipsed in the onyx abyss

it sapped all my strength to hold it under
drowning in the wave’s of sea motion
stinging salt alive on my pours
gasping for air i surrendered my grip
releasing my marred orb of élan vital

capitulating to the sand on the beach
i ceded the fight and watched the sphere roll
unraveling it glistened against the white sand
an opalescent tapestry lit by twilight
mirroring the stars against the coal sky

in the lustrous lunar midnight
reflected back by silver moonlight
littered with specks of fluorescent insight
astonished i drew in my breath as i read
words interlaced in the untangled web

the wounds are there
creating a looking glass
peer in
and you will heal
your own consciousness

©2016janetaylor
Paras Bajaj Jan 21
It’s really been so quiet.
Can I hear your voice?
I’m tired of being strong,
wish I had another choice.

It’s really been so dark.
Can I feel your light?
I’m tired of being fine,
wish you were still mine.

It’s really been so awful.
Can you heal my wounds?
I’m tired of being alone.
Wish I could move on.

-Paras Bajaj #PoetrybyParas
Instagram : @mr.parasbajaj
Chris Neilson Nov 2017
She lived with her husband in a Manchester suburb
toiling to keep their kid's bellies filled
oblivious to the horrors yet to be lived
"The war to end all wars" and millions killed

From a thread-bare working class
with poorly paid work and a struggle to get by
her future was stolen in August 1914
she didn't have the vote for her husband to die

Tommy and his pals signed up for glory
marching and grinning but gripped by fear
she waved them off with her heart so heavy
as posters warned the Germans would be here

Tommy returned from the front to nurse his wounds
gone was his smile, his whistle in the morn
a haunted look, he couldn't say what he'd seen
she felt sad and lonely, bereft and forlorn

Supporting her husband throughout his trauma
much work to do and mouths to feed
2 years now into this epic madness
more brave cannon fodder was the nation's need

They recalled Tommy for a battle at the Somme
his mental wounds hidden, he stood at the door
she kissed him as he left to meet his maker
she sighed, then cried and collapsed to the floor

On a warm July morning he was sent to his death
cut down in his prime in no man's land
another pointless, tragic waste of a life
most now saw this "Great War" wasn't so grand

She opened the letter bearing the news
they regretted her loss and said they were pained
passed to her loved ones and back again
barely readable now it was so tear-stained

2 months passed and she read some news
they were showing a film at her local cinema
the carnage at the Somme could now be viewed
some family and friends went to see it with her

She saw a body being carried in the trenches
the face of the dead man was screened
that face was Tommy's, she leapt to her feet
"That's him! That's my Tommy!", she screamed

She was led back home to her children
her pain and anguish she could now release
seeing Tommy one last time gave her closure
his face had looked content and finally at peace
In remembrance week, a piece I wrote a few years back. I wrote it from the point of view of a volunteer's wife to give it a slightly different perspective.
Leila The Kiwi Jan 2017
Fresh wounds
Begin to fester
Tearing inward
Scars  deepen
Transported from flesh
To the soul of a victim,

Specific pain
Catered to the controller
An intimate bond of blood to emotion
Crimson Consumption
Pristine Flagellation
Perfect Punishment

With each step
My youth deteriorates
Enticing me deeper into the void
To which I am held captive

l.v.s and z.w.b
These wounds are mine
I claim them.
I am the one that allowed
them to happen.
Opened myself up.
Engaged in the rage
and Drama.

50 years of my 60,
have only thought
how I could do no harm to others.
I was my children’s protector,
The worlds advocate.
Yet, I have allowed so much
harm to come to me.

These wounds are mine.
I push them back into
The darkness through
which they came.
That is how I smile and love
through each moment.

These wounds are my own
They are mine
They belong to me
Sam Jul 2018
I might always see the past
but I can never see the future
to know what words will last
after every wounds are sutured.




Noises in Mind, Copyright © 2014
Sam N. de la Rosa
All rights reserved.
Alyssa Underwood Nov 2015
My wounds are like a canyon
But Your love is like an ocean
Filling it up

My filth is like a mountain
But Your grace is like fresh snow
Falling over it

My rage is like a fire
But Your power is like a hurricane
Blowing it away
~~~
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