Long Wounds Poems
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I call forth pain
upon myself willingly
plunging a sharp dagger each day
into my own heart
by remembering
oh, you cannot see my hidden wounds
as I hide them well
for my scars are mine to love
but I pen grieving words of pain and loss
written with my blood
from this weeping, weeping soul
how can I not do so
and I send my tears on fluttering wings
that swirl and drift in the wind
and my wish is, oh
please land in gentle hands ...
______________________
April 24, 2023
Poetry/Verse/pain
Copyright Protected, ID 04-1542-516-24
All Rights Reserved, 2023, Constance La France
It’s okay to carry the weight of your fractures -
to let the world see where light fights
to escape the jagged edges.
Let them witness the uneven gleam;
perfection is a story that never breathes.
They say strength is silence,
a face unmoved by the tide,
but I’ve found courage
in the ragged pull of air,
in tears carving rivers
through words left unspoken.
It’s okay to unravel,
to crumble in the places
you once called unbreakable.
Let the pieces scatter freely.
You’re not a puzzle to be solved
but a mosaic,
stitched with scars and glints of gold.
Feel lost. Rage wildly!
Scream until the echo finds you -
proof that darkness cannot
swallow you whole.
It’s okay to not be okay.
Wear your wounds like constellations,
maps that shimmer toward
a truth untamed,
a self still becoming.
And when the weight gnaws at your chest,
know that somewhere,
someone bears the same shadow.
Let your fractured voices converge -
each step,
each breath.
You are the flicker,
the unbroken ember,
refusing to burn out.
Hidden In A Broken Heart
Tripping in the shadows she falls down to her knees.
Haunted by her yesterdays where lives her memories.
Of times not very long ago she cried out “What's the use?”
As she suffered at a monsters hands he dished out more abuse.
What started as a love song had finally met its end.
The one that's now her enemy that started as a friend.
Broken for forever, that's how she's come to feel.
The hurt that breaths inside of her forever is so real.
Time will heal her wounds, at least that's what they say.
But if there's healing for her it won't be found today.
As she stands right beside you and you look into her eyes.
Seeing her forced smile but not the tears she cries.
Life had turned a corner where it became demanding.
All she asks of you is just a little understanding.
Being kind and being gentle no matter where you go.
For hidden in a broken heart there's much that you don't know.
There will come a day someday her heart will be set free.
For now it's only tenderness she needs from you and me.
So should you find a moment when you see her teardrops glisten.
Take the time to let love shine and give her heart a listen.
Edwin C Hofert
Sometimes a poem comes to me seemingly from nowhere. Like a voice that's whispered in the wind. I've learned over the years to listen when it happens. This is such a poem as that.
While on the surface this poem may not seem to apply to you, but I assure you it does. Because as much as it is about abuse it is more so about us being understanding to people we rub elbo's with every day. Roads they traveled we are unaware of and struggles that they've faced.
My desire is that you will share this poem and make an effort to give hope to someone you may or may not know. Share some love to someone struggling to survive a past that's different from your own.
And if by some chance you find yourself in this writing and you are being abused. I pray you find the strength you need to reach out for help and to change your circumstances.
God bless. Ed
Many paths lead away from home, but only one leads back.
As the years sit salted upon the rack.
You find the path home has narrowed.
Turned from gates of dependence to mirrors opaque and black.
You arrive with exhaustion on your boots.
A feast of favorites on a favorite plate.
Go upstairs to your yellow crib.
To ignite those unreachable dreams again.
Things have become slightly slanted.
The faces so unfriendly.
Some are missing altogether.
Replaced by fresh ones, but you don't know their names.
Home is a place where you go back to lick your wounds.
Stay in tune with yesterday.
Until the nest completely blows away.
Nobody knows your name; you're a graying orphan.
A gasoline-splashed stray.
A stranger lives in your nest now.
The whole world plays the jester.
Holding a piece of your ancient flint.
Her warm hands in my dire need,
melted my coldness and made me very happy to thrive and live;
proverbial words became my creed...
oh, she spoke them to lead such a heart of stone to forgive!
Darkness replaced light as her tender voice
diminished anger with compassionate eyes
saying, " Sweet boy, grow free of resentment...
find in me that faithful friend with selfless intent. "
Her warm hands in my dire need
soothed and healed my wounds of hurt teen;
I ran to her when others turned away,
they did not see how sadness ended my day.
This morning I rang her doorbell around ten,
her doorsteps were decorated with sympathy cards, candles and flowers,
but the drawn shades wouldn't let the sun in;
a middle-age man leaning on a steel cane came forward with tearful eyes.
sometimes we wish the freedom of sunset's pink clouds
that cross the sky in ribbons
sometimes one urge piles on top of another,
the gathering bounty of spring
like
an urge to run through April rain, overcoming arthritic pain,
an idle wanderer within
an urge to shake off the Blues like Jello loosened from its mold
an urge to spring clean clutter, messy like seaweed draped
over a walrus
an urge to stifle stress that sizzles like bacon frying,
displacing contentment
an urge to flush a slush pile of "to do's" that gag sleep
an urge to watch birds at the feeder, tutored travelers
chattily sharing stories
an urge to inhale the solemnity of church to void
the wounds
of striving
no longer subdued by the clean clasps of cold,
nature nudges newness into empty spaces
for winter leaving lifts the script of cold unforgiving,
like a child reciting rhymes
Poem composed April 17, 2023
Hate is a sharp inheritance.
I did not ask for it.
It grew in me like a second skeleton—
not born, but built
in the blue-lit silence after fists,
in the wreckage of rooms where my name was a curse
and my voice was a threat to authority.
My family—
a word that still makes my mouth taste like pennies—
taught me that love was conditional,
a ledger of wounds and withholding.
They told me I was nothing,
and I believed them,
until I learned that hatred could speak louder than grief.
I wore it like a crown.
No, like barbed wire—wrapped tight,
a defence that cut me while keeping others out.
I hated them so much I began to look like them.
And then I hated myself.
I set my life on fire to stay warm.
Ashes don’t judge,
and pills don’t ask where you’ve been.
Cocaine doesn’t care who you are.
It just opens its arms
and lets you forget.
I disappeared into alleys,
slept in the spaces between streetlights,
made deals with men who had eyes like broken windows
and promises stitched with rot.
I stole. I lied. I bled on floors that had no memory of me.
I called this freedom.
But it was just exile with better lighting.
I was dying—slowly, quietly,
like a candle in a room with no air—
and no one noticed.
Except the hate.
It always noticed.
It whispered, “Good.”
It wasn’t redemption that saved me.
It wasn’t a miracle.
It was exhaustion.
One day, I just got tired of being hollow.
Tired of the rage swallowing my name,
tired of the story they wrote for me
playing on repeat inside my skull.
Forgiveness didn’t come like light.
It came like water—slow, seeping through
the cracks I didn’t know were still open.
I didn’t forgive them to free them.
I forgave them so they’d stop living inside me
rent-free,
destroying the furniture of my becoming.
I started over—stone by stone,
reminding my body it was not a crime scene.
Telling my reflection:
You are not what they did to you.
You are not the bruises,
the rage,
the ache that made you use.
You are not the hate that almost won.
And now, I speak with a voice that carries weight,
not weapons.
I build with hands once taught to break.
I am living proof
that even scorched earth
can choose to bloom.
Scratches and abrasions sensate,
stalking, doxing, ghosting drones
have pinched, clawed, and marked.
I remember the sharp edges of yesterday
but cannot recall the moments
when the bumps and bruises occurred,
yet here is the evidence beneath my skin
boiling up today as if another I
had fought his way through an avalanche of time.
I bathe my spectral wounds in virgin olive oil
and elderberries,
soak tender thoughts in aloe, the essence
of echinacea -
yet still nothing to see
and I wonder
if this jagged land is so wrongly put together
and I am so loosely stitched,
so easily in the way of its daggers
then I should not venture another day
of being in this worlds way.
My God, You gave me Solomon’s own mind
A well of truth, so deep, so rich, refined.
Yet waves of war have beat upon my shore,
With wounds that shake me to my very core.
They come with snares—emotions torn and tried,
With whispered lies that mock and pierce my pride.
They touch my flesh, they crowd my weary sleep,
And still You watch, while I’m too weak to weep.
I know You, Lord—intimately, I’ve prayed,
But now it seems Your light has turned to shade.
Am I a pawn within some holy game,
A vessel marked with sorrow, shame, and blame?
They call me wicked, false, and yet I bleed—
These wounds bear witness to my silent need.
I feel defeated, torn by inward strife,
O God of mercy, breathe into my life.
Restore the heart that once burned pure with fire,
Revive the hope that sin would now expire.
Cure every thirst that draws me from Your side,
And heal this soul that’s wayward, double-eyed.
My hands are shaking, yet they reach for You,
Deliver me from all I think and do.
Addiction chains me, shame and guilt conspire—
But You, O Lord, are still my one desire.
So lift me, cleanse me, cast out every fear,
And let Your Spirit draw and keep me near.
Though crushed and low, I know that You still reign—
My God, my healer—bind and break these chains.
Young brother so sorry daddy went a stray...
sorry for who's your mother, life shouldnt be this way.....
Sorry young brother for all the wounds you had to hide,
Because you were a punk and not human when you cried....
Sorry young brother when you were at school acting up.....
Instead saying what's wrong, the teacher said "shut up"....
She has 30 students and curriculum to do....
She wasn't smart enough to see the pain within you....
Sorry so sorry but what happens now?
you have learn your important ..
you have to love yourself now....
Oh my strong brother, you heal your heart.....
How can it love or feel if it's torn all apart?
We love you our brother's, life doesn't have to be so harsh
Stop trying to bad and try learning who you are!
My brothers!!!