Magic Morning

i wish the world of pain would let me go.

it won’t, of course; i’ll walk on even so.

i could not have imagined where i’d be,

or that the magic morning would

have so abandoned

me

 

the waves will try to soothe my throbbing soul,

but I cannot believe right now

the bruised can still be whole.

the pains i’m feeling in my chest are strong;

i’m thinking i won’t feel these pains

for all that very long —

 

i wish the constant pain would let me be.

it won’t, of course; and so i must go on with agony —

i could not have imagined life this way,

or that the magic morning would

turn into heartless

day

 

Three Thirty

Some paint can’t be touched up.

Lungs that need to breathe,
Muscles screaming for air,
She lies in bed,
Not-sleeping

Oh, for the days when
She wasn’t aware of
Her own body:
When she wasn’t
So acutely cognizant of
Its every defect and
Pain

There is no awareness so
Stark or unremitting
As realizing
We’ve lost
Our unawareness

She tries
In vain
To recall
What it felt like
Not to feel
So bad

Some torn things
Can’t be mended;
Some paint
Can’t be touched up –

Sometimes, she is filled
With hollow —
The air can’t get in

The hope can’t get in

And the best she has,
For awhile,

 
Is distraction

Sharp Things

(For those who might not know – the photo is of an old game called “Jacks”, and those things really hurt to step on in your bare feet. – Owen)

(For those who might not know – the photo is of an old game called “Jacks”, and those things really hurt to step on in your bare feet. – Owen)

I know there’re sharp things in this world;
I have feet, knees and elbows
That seem to find them, each and every day —

Right now, I’m on painkillers for
A back that’s really messed up
From seizures, and from how damned much I weigh.

And so, to put this out of mind,
I write about my neighbors,
My blog-pals, relatives, and strangers, too —

I know there’re sharp things in this world,
For always, I will find them:
And I can guess
That it’s the same
For you

The Losing Battle

Reality is now.

The Losing Battle

You tell me fighters never ever quit,
And if I won’t, I’ll beat this damned disease.
But I don’t know about that. Not a bit.

I take the time I have to try to squeeze
An extra minute (here or there) of joy;
Because I do not know that I will win.

I’m daily tempted to mock and destroy;
But this I must resist. It is a sin.
You see, maybe, this is what I must face:

That some will wax in life, while others wane.
Reality is now, this time, this space:
The daily, constant company
Of pain