Under the Thousand Footed Stampede
Band aids cover the womb,
until the scab grows strong.
In pain I grow weak.
I am sure you can feel it in the words I speak.
Blood leaks, from the warrior like scares on my cheek.
My wombs are fresh, band aids never seem to hold.
Temporary healing fades.
Hope decaying.
Flesh less bones of hope.
Clinging to its shoulder blade,
dragging it with me as I fall and continually fall.
Falling in shattered glass mixed with wreaking trash.
How have I come so low, below to the lowest of all times.
Below the stars I wonder.
Below the thousand footed stampede,
I bleed, I bleed.
With my blood I write, you read.
Indeed in need, in need of hope.
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