02-21-2016, 12:21 PM
Revision 2:
I always felt a nervous hopeful flutter
buying razor blades and peroxide
at the local pharmacy, but nobody
ever cared to ask why.
I carved, slashed, crosshatched,
watched as rivulets ran down,
admired them, the wounds
sometimes dripping into paint,
leaving DNA in my creations.
My best work left in a graveyard;
a window pane depicted a naked
rape victim cowering in the corner of a church floor.
Pews made of razors, last one breaking free
attacked the victim with its sharp blade.
Chaotic and haphazard gashes made
to my life’s soundtrack, Pink Floyd’s
“Comfortably Numb,” scars
a reminder of ugliness so loud
my ears still ring now.
My poor tender wrists and arms.
You can't remember horrible pain exactly,
just that there was and it wasn’t from the cuts,
but experiences like shadows remain.
Maybe one day enough light
from all directions might make the dark stains go away.
Scars won't matter and I won't be so tired
from being an ox in a yoke for pulling a wagon
stacked with life sagas sliding and tipping askew.
A shadow cannot be chased, only unmade.
Revision 1:
I always felt a nervous hopeful flutter
buying razor blades and peroxide
at the local pharmacy but nobody
ever cared to ask why.
I carved, slashed, crosshatched,
watched as rivulets ran down,
admired them, the wounds
sometimes dripping into paint,
leaving DNA in my creations.
My best work I left in a graveyard;
Done on a window pane it depicted a naked
rape victim cowering in the corner of a church floor.
Pews were made of razors, the last one breaking free
attacking the victim with its sharp blade.
Chaotic and haphazard gashes were made
to my life’s soundtrack, Pink Floyd’s
“Comfortably Numb,” the scars
a reminder of ugliness so loud
my ears still ring now.
My poor tender wrists and arms.
You can't remember horrible pain exactly,
just that there was and it wasn’t from the cuts,
experiences like shadows that remain.
Maybe one day there will be enough light
from all directions to make the dark stains go away.
Scars won't matter and I won't be so tired
from being an ox in a yoke pulling a wagon
stacked with life sagas sliding and tipping askew.
A shadow cannot be chased, only unmade.
Original:
I always felt a nervous flutter
buying razor blades and peroxide
at the local pharmacy
but nobody ever batted an eye.
I carved, slashed, crosshatched--
watched as rivulets ran down,
admired them, the wounds
sometimes dripping into paint,
leaving DNA in my creations.
My best work I left in a graveyard.
Had I known about scarification
I might have made designs instead of
chaotic and haphazard gashes, the scars
a reminder of ugliness so loud
my ears still ring now.
They say you can't remember pain.
True, you don't, just that there was,
but it is there like a shadow that remains.
Maybe one day there will be enough light
from all directions to make it go away.
The scars won't matter and I won't be so tired
from being an ox in a yoke.
I always felt a nervous hopeful flutter
buying razor blades and peroxide
at the local pharmacy, but nobody
ever cared to ask why.
I carved, slashed, crosshatched,
watched as rivulets ran down,
admired them, the wounds
sometimes dripping into paint,
leaving DNA in my creations.
My best work left in a graveyard;
a window pane depicted a naked
rape victim cowering in the corner of a church floor.
Pews made of razors, last one breaking free
attacked the victim with its sharp blade.
Chaotic and haphazard gashes made
to my life’s soundtrack, Pink Floyd’s
“Comfortably Numb,” scars
a reminder of ugliness so loud
my ears still ring now.
My poor tender wrists and arms.
You can't remember horrible pain exactly,
just that there was and it wasn’t from the cuts,
but experiences like shadows remain.
Maybe one day enough light
from all directions might make the dark stains go away.
Scars won't matter and I won't be so tired
from being an ox in a yoke for pulling a wagon
stacked with life sagas sliding and tipping askew.
A shadow cannot be chased, only unmade.
Revision 1:
I always felt a nervous hopeful flutter
buying razor blades and peroxide
at the local pharmacy but nobody
ever cared to ask why.
I carved, slashed, crosshatched,
watched as rivulets ran down,
admired them, the wounds
sometimes dripping into paint,
leaving DNA in my creations.
My best work I left in a graveyard;
Done on a window pane it depicted a naked
rape victim cowering in the corner of a church floor.
Pews were made of razors, the last one breaking free
attacking the victim with its sharp blade.
Chaotic and haphazard gashes were made
to my life’s soundtrack, Pink Floyd’s
“Comfortably Numb,” the scars
a reminder of ugliness so loud
my ears still ring now.
My poor tender wrists and arms.
You can't remember horrible pain exactly,
just that there was and it wasn’t from the cuts,
experiences like shadows that remain.
Maybe one day there will be enough light
from all directions to make the dark stains go away.
Scars won't matter and I won't be so tired
from being an ox in a yoke pulling a wagon
stacked with life sagas sliding and tipping askew.
A shadow cannot be chased, only unmade.
Original:
I always felt a nervous flutter
buying razor blades and peroxide
at the local pharmacy
but nobody ever batted an eye.
I carved, slashed, crosshatched--
watched as rivulets ran down,
admired them, the wounds
sometimes dripping into paint,
leaving DNA in my creations.
My best work I left in a graveyard.
Had I known about scarification
I might have made designs instead of
chaotic and haphazard gashes, the scars
a reminder of ugliness so loud
my ears still ring now.
They say you can't remember pain.
True, you don't, just that there was,
but it is there like a shadow that remains.
Maybe one day there will be enough light
from all directions to make it go away.
The scars won't matter and I won't be so tired
from being an ox in a yoke.
"Write while the heat is in you...The writer who postpones the recording of his thoughts uses an iron which has cooled to burn a hole with." --Henry David Thoreau