springtime floods

It happens about the same time every year. The new spring sun melts the thick layer of snow that has held the earth hostage for months. However, the melting those walls of frost have dire consequences. Behind those strongholds of ice built up after many snow falls hides the rivers of woe. As the sun melts winter away, the grip is lost on the treacherous torrents of the rivers of woe. Any moment snow the last snow flake will burn away. Any moment now the rivers of woe will be unleashed once again….flooding the land with memories and pain.

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poem: I am

I am broken and scarred
chopped up and sliced
smacked across and pushed aside

I am ruined and ragged
worn out and weary
burned up and shoved down

I am dark and dreary
Hidden and isolated
Lights out and door closed

I am ugly and miserable
angry and aggravated
boiling over and falling out

I am worthless
I am hopeless
I am disgusting
I am despair

What else do you need to know?

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poem: there is no place

Is there any solace?
Is there any comfort?

Does any place exist
That a battered and beaten heart
Can lay for a moment
To gather strength
For the next round

I promise I will only
Burden you for a short time

Does any place exist
That a few drops of blood
Splattered on the floor
From open bleeding wounds
Can be forgiven for a moment

I promise I will clean up after myself
When I depart this place

Does any place exist
Where a few words
Can be heard
Whether they are of the land of sanity
Or insanity
Just for the sake of being heard

I promise I will only speak for a short time
As to not waste too much of it

Does any place exist?

No, there is no place.

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poem: reaching for stars

Look at you
Taking magazines dripping with dreams
clipping pages one by one
and taping them to the wall

Look at you
With that longing look
Staring at the stars
painted between those lines
wishing you could reach out
and grab them

Look at you
Forgetting what a worthless
piece of waste you are
Wishing for those stars
that would rather you burn
than touch them

Because you can dream
all you want
but you’ll never get it
You little useless
Sack of nothing

Only people with talent
reach those dreams

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poem: who could help?

Who could even help with this?
there is no single source
or origin for your being anymore
that could be unraveled

You are just here in every mood
Be it joy or anger
or sadness or scared

You are always here
making your existence known
and your desire to be present apparent

constantly digging ditches
in the places I have finally repaired

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The Giving Thorn

Out of this place of suffering and trials, something beautiful had been born.

There it was. Contorted and curled up under the lowest bone of his rib cage. Griping and anchoring itself to his torn up muscles and fatty flesh, it made itself at home in him. He swears it wasn’t always here. Perhaps he was wrong and it has been a piece of him this whole time.

A thorn. A sharpened piece of pure agony. Created only to inflict pain. It fulfilled its sole purpose by finding him and burrowing deep inside. Now it lay satisfied with its work and left him to suffer the consequences of all its wicked deeds.

Why did it choose him? That he will never know. One day its existence was not known to him. The next he looked down and there it was, causing profuse bleeding down his leg. The bleeding and throbbing pain of nerves reacting to it ripping and tearing up his body never ends.

When would it leave him? That he does not know either. At least in this plane of being he is sure this curse will always follow him. In all his researching and studying, he has never found of cure that causes the thorn’s departure. Whatever or whoever allowed it to find him must have meant for it to remain there always. As much as this angered and discouraged him, he had found some small scraps of peace that were enough to keep him going despite the difficulties it gave his journeys.

One day he saw a rare sight. Ahead of him on the path he saw another. They expressed a quite familiar set of symptoms and appearances in how they walked and held themselves. It appeared that they were going through something very similar to him. The same wincing in their face. The same griping of their side. The same blood trail tracing its way down their body to the ground beneath them. The same torn flesh in the very same place.

He felt deep compassion for them. He knew what they carried. He wished they did not have to know what that was like. He wished they never had to understand this pain. He wished with every fiber of his being that there was a way he could take it from them. He could not even remove his own thorn though. How could he remove someone else’s then?

He felt a strange sensation in his side beneath his ribs in his old wound. He looked down, and a rose had grown out of the thorn. A rose had grown out of the minced skin and veins and ripped up layers. Out of this place of suffering and trials, something beautiful had been born.

He plucked the rose from its place. He ran over to the other person on my path, “Here, take this rose and place it in the wound! Quickly while you have the strength still!” They looked at him confused as if not a single person had ever shown that kind of concern for them before. “Okay, I will try that. Nothing else has worked. It’s worth a shot,” they said as they took the rose from his shaking hands.

They took the rose that had grown out of his thorn and plunged it into their own bleeding side. They groaned with pain, but they persisted and were able to plant it deep inside them. As soon as they pulled their fingers out of their side, the wound began to heal. The thorn found its way out of their skin as theirs and organs mended themselves because there was nowhere left for it to remain. The thorn fell out onto the ground when the last of their skin mended.

They stood astonished, “It worked!!! Wow!! Thank you!! I never knew relief like this could exist!!” they exclaimed. But then heart break found its way to their face again, because they realized something, “I do not have a rose to give you! I can’t help you in return!”

“Do not let yourself be troubled by that. Just go on your way and be happy and never know this pain ever again. That will be enough peace to fuel me to keep going,” he said as embraced this fellow traveler that now stood before him healed.

They parted ways and continued in separate directions. He looked down at his thorn. Maybe a rose would grow there again one day when it was needed to help another. Maybe there was a reason he was given this thorn after all. That gave him just enough strength to continue forward.

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poem: i still want it

I still want it

Every flow
Every fight
Every low
and every sight

I still want it

Every straight
Every curve
Every break
And every swerve

I still want it

All the red
And all the white
All that’s dead
And all that’s night

I still want it

Every cut
Every peel
Every rut
And every heal

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