The soul is his home,
detachment an intruder.
He is like a street dog
who sees rainbows.
A slate reflects life;
emotion exposed by a pen.
Pain and beauty cut deep.
No bandage can heal;
only words can complete.
I am the rot beguiling the saccharine summer hue
I am the self in selfish sorrow, sullying the morning dew
Sickened with the mortal blips of emotion
To fall with the fragility of flesh hipped erosion
Hipped bone beneath browned bandage
Honed the hand hither, 'ncase fickle flesh cannot manage
T'stand aground the mortal vantage
Health t'sickness, worn to wear, not to manage, thy
Breath be dragged'n rancid acid, lipped from the dazed haze of exhaustion
She who had not a gun to brandish, but the naval blade o'self-famish
She who chose to awake, who awoke'n self-loathing
Whose body is irate with the dawned dam break of bile
T'overflow mine own organs, and hinder the words of hungered mind
Breaking the tide of the thrum drum pendulum heart
Shalt th'tounge twist rue th'bile duct of recovery
Drool the drivel of a mere reason 'why?'
And retract the bile of thy sickened mind.
I am to drool the drivel, of love from human kind
Im so tired'f this mortal mortuary
In place of mortal mind.
I am the mind that threatens to die.
And i am the mind, prepared to fight.
I wake with the weight again
a shadow that speaks in my own voice,
telling me there’s no point.
But I’ve learned not to argue
with ghosts who have memorized
all my soft spots.
Instead, I breathe.
Once for the past,
twice for the pain,
a third for the chance that maybe
today will hold something small and good.
And I say it
not loud, but certain:
I am still here.
I am still breathing.
This moment will not break me.
The words wrap my ribs
like a bandage,
keep my heart from falling apart
in the wind.
The shadow doesn’t vanish,
but it loosens its grip,
and that is enough
for me to take
one more step.
Coocoo doodle I do,
Not every day I coo,
What Mum can do, I can –
My skin needs a sun tan.
My hair with homemade curls,
My makeup shines like pearls.
I'm just a baby, see,
Acting adult, maybe.
Bring napkins for wee-wee,
Ensure fun flows for free.
Tie me nappies for poo.
And bandage my boo-boo.
Baby guys will whistle,
Love – their own epistle.
While I sway my bum-bum,
Left to right like my mum.
Coocoo doodle I do,
Not every day I coo,
What Mum can do, I can –
My skin needs a sun tan.
No high-heeled shoes to wear,
I'd still swagger with flair.
I'm a baby with style,
Can't stop this cheeky smile.
The world is bleeding badly as we know
This haemorrhage started many years ago.
A band aid will not fix its gaping wound
So, to be frank I fear we may be doomed.
This bleeding seems to seep across earth’s land
From many causes we can’t understand.
And now this wound is such a festered sore
If not stopped soon, we’ll bleed to death for sure.
.
Our world is such a truly treasured prize
But man can’t see what is before their eyes.
The wars, the hate, the politics, the greed,
Just many causes making our world bleed.
Perhaps there is a doctor here today
A specialist who may show us the way.
On how to seal our wounds and make them right
Fix up our world, with knowledge and insight.
To teach us all how we must stem the flow
If in the future bleeding starts to show.
A pressure bandage soon must be applied
And only when the blood stops then untied.
Under the solar system
in our basement I sat,
copying schematics of
superheterodyne radios
from a book on electronics,
while my dad, across from me,
stood at his drawing board
illustrating advertisements
for feed and farm equipment.
The floor was painted blood red,
the walls bandage white—
a battlefield made tidy.
The dehumidifier murmured its hymn
beneath Saladin’s ceramic gaze,
his turbaned brow inscrutable
as my father bent to sketch
a combine in perfect perspective.
And why Saladin’s head?
What did it mean to my dad,
this sultan of Egypt and Syria?
Did he admire the general
for how he fought with honor
or just like the look of him—
that calm authority,
that stylized beard?
Was it a joke I never got,
or a reminder
of some private war?
Saladin’s head—
commanding,
noble,
a little creepy—
still hangs
somewhere in my mind,
a relic or a riddle,
watching as I trace new lines
through circuits of memory,
searching for my father’s face.
She started crying in the middle of rages—
not the soft kind, but sharp,
like she’d cut herself on something
I couldn’t see.
She slammed drawers.
Shouted at a spoon.
Broke a plate and sobbed
as if the world had cracked with it.
Before she left,
my mother filled the kitchen with notes
written on paper towels—
taped to the cupboards,
the countertops, the fridge.
I couldn’t read,
but I knew they were important—
squares of paper whispering rules
for someone to follow.
And then she was gone.
We went to see her
in a hospital that smelled
like bleach and stillness.
She didn’t get up—
just sat in a wheelchair
with a white bandage
wrapped around her throat
like she’d tried to swallow something
that wouldn’t go down.
After that,
she came home quiet.
No more yelling.
No more crying jags.
She took down the notes,
made my lunch
and folded the laundry
like nothing had happened—
like maybe I dreamed it.
I didn’t ask why, and she didn’t say.
But I tried not to spill things.
I tried not to be loud.
1. Never trust spellcheck
2. Use punctuation only when it will confuse the reader
3. Never trust the mind to capture the heart
4. And vice versa
5. If you must use the word sublime….don’t
6. Don’t try to convince the reader it is great poetry…let them figure it out
7. Remember that it is your blood on the page…don’t let them bandage it
8. Shout at the pencil or keyboard frequently
9. Remember the shredder is not after your words…it is after your soul
10. You wrote it so it’s all your fault stop making excuses
I remember,
I remember the pain,
I remember the fear.
The loss, the anger, the hurt.
Friendships I thought might last forever,
Torn apart too soon.
People I loved now lost to me.
Years ago, I wrote a letter,
An old song from the depths of my heart.
In this letter, I recall
The crushing, clenching pain.
I thought it was gone, old and fixed,
Oh how wrong I was.
I read these words today and the pain returns,
The wounds not healed but covered,
Ignored and left in the past, I thought they couldn’t hurt me,
But the bandage has been torn, ripped from my skin
Revealing shredded flesh and weeping blood.
My chest is clenching, my heart clutched in yesterday’s bruising grasp.
The memories hurt and my tears fall fresh, leaving red tracks against my cheeks,
The thoughts I had way back when,
The all encompassing ache that filled my heart,
It returns again, though not as sharp as once before.
racism
Different skin
but no difference
within
Different races
All human
No reason to blame
Say no to shame
A world with many shades
Don't be the one to throw the blades
They say
Accept the hate
It's just your fate
I don't want to
I don't need to
So i don't let them
Say it doesn't hurt to feel cool
But it hurts
Like grazing a knee
They put a bandage on to cover what they did
But its still there just disguised
Stand up
Speak out
Make a change
Isnt it beautiful that this
world has such a range
You entered my silence like a violin bow dragged with blood through shattered stained glass
I sewed your laughter under my eyelids and lungs, and the light transformed into myriads of fragrant wounds
I coughed wild moon petals for weeks, my mouth full of the echo of your ever-burning footsteps
There is no cure for you, you are the high fever that shapes bones into transparent crystal bells
You are the imperial chandelier fallen right in the middle of the sonata, when the air still trembles with flame and glass
And I lean daily among the shards, gathering your syllables like phosphorescent fish above my heart
I taste them with fear, checking if they still smell of sound, if they still shake the rooftops of my orbit
Every morning I bandage my lungs with sheet music, hoping that silence will flow from me
But the silence breaks anew and your echo returns like a kite torn by a storm
So I clutch your broken glass in my fists, to make it sound like the violin again
Just because someone isn’t wearing a bandage or shows no outward sign of illness doesn’t mean that they are not.
Quote by poet.
Sam lived two doors down and kept to himself, some thought him strange,
I found out he'd been in the marines and was suffering from PTSD, he always acknowledged me with a nod and a faint smile but Sam rarely spoke a word.
I felt sorry for him as he lived all alone with no one to share his problems with.
On one dark December night before Christmas I was walking home from work,
I was fifty yards from home when three thugs appeared and surrounded me,
"Your money and phone" one said, I froze on the spot and reluctantly put my hand in my pocket, then out of nowhere Sam appeared, baseball bat in hand, he swung at one of the thugs who went down with blood pouring from his nose, one of them then lunged at Sam and stabbed him repeatedly, Sam collapsed and the cowards ran off, I quickly dialled 911, “I’ve called for help" I told Sam, he looked at me smiling and said ,"Peace at last" then his eyes closed and he was gone.
I walk alone
my love has let me be
and my spirit roams free
The shoreline is my friend
little birds dart along the edge
of the surf ever so playful
But my heart aches in pain
remembering my love
that left me long ago
I see the pelicans fly by
in unison with their friends
can they feel for me, my heart bleeding
Each footstep in the sand echoes
against the silent shore and I cry to the Gods
why am I so forsaken
Will a new love bandage my pains
and drive away the demons
only the sunset will know her name
It begins to rain
and thoughts of her love is my umbrella
that keeps my soul dry
So many loves in one lifetime
but only one reigns
as soulmates to the ocean’s waves
But I’ll never forget
the fragile one
who broke my heart
But don’t look back
the angels cry
as I heed their sorrowful call
When we injure our bodies, we expect it to take time to heal, but why do we not extend that healing process to ourselves for emotional healing as well?
Someone walking around in a cast easily receives sympathy whereas someone struggling with an emotional scar and is short tempered gets our annoyance.
I walk around with physical scars for the world to see but have those emotional
ones crammed deep inside as far away as I can hide them.
What if we decided to heal those wounds that no one can see? What if we took the time to clean, bandage, care and heal them?
You cant change how people treat you but you can change how you treat yourself. You can learn how much you can tolerate and when to walk away.
I hope you take the time to heal. I hope you learn to rest your mind as well as your body. I hope you realize how important you are and needed in this place.
The couch is torn apart.
Cushions bitten into.
Stuffing covering everything.
The claws swiped but didn’t get me.
They just knocked over the juice on the counter.
Juice everywhere.
But it’s better than blood.
He lives in the pantry.
All I have is some cereal and it’s mostly stale.
He eats it and laughs.
As I picked up the broken glass, I got a cut on my finger.
There is no blood, only a tender burning.
Then the cut laughs a bit.
I reach for a bandage and the lights flicker.
Slime is coming from the faucet.
But it’s better than blood.
The sun hasn’t set in 38 hours.
My cut didn’t stop talking for two days.
But it’s better than blood.
I never fixed any of the broken stuff in my house.
I just sat and ate stale cereal in the pantry.
I never fix anything.
I take a sip of milk but it’s spoiled.
But it’s better than blood.
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