Poem 71

There was an issue with my poem numbers and I had to straighten it out. End result is, I’m just on my 71st.

The Cosmic I (Bright)

There is a hurt of wonder and question within the crevices where I was left wounded. They, the cuts, are in the form of a wolf’s claw piercing and dragging across the naked skin. I am torn open. I feel it in the depths of my stomach, churning my insides out. They stab me and I am constrained by its iron maiden.

I shiver from the tips of my fingers, my toes and from my spine down. It is cold and it is summer. It is a California summer of twisted fate and unfair predicaments. My hands are numb. But who is to blame. The fingers are frozen by fright, by the cool air and by cowardice. My mind, it is gone.

If I am blind in seeing you then I am deaf for hearing the calls that tore this universe apart. I never left. My heart aches of nothing but the Dead sea. I am drowning from nothing. I am the basin of a waterfall.

I am empty. These lips that sought out the justice, the good, they are in drought. Everything is a desert. Left as barren land, toyed by footsteps that never stayed. I alone. Me. Lonesome. They pinch like scorpions, like red killer ants.

I am worth a ton. A fight. An effort. Of everything that I wasn’t deemed worthy of. I am all even when I am nothing. I should be the dazzling star that fell. The one full of hope and wishes not of my own. I should be beautiful. I should be lovable. I should be brilliant.


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