With blistered hands we reach for the things that are sweet,
And gather the ashes that fall at our feet.
We barter for things that decay,
And cry when it all gets swept away.
We hide from the heat,
Believing every sting is our defeat.
Yet, these earthen vessels are broken before being filled,
The stone must be struck before the waters are spilled.
Our small comforts we guard and we run from the rod,
We mistake our wounds for the absence of God.
We forget that oil is pressed,
And the soul must be emptied before it finds rest.
The branch must be pruned before blossoms appear,
And joy that we seek is bought through the tear.
So open these hands that have clung to the clay,
And shatter the jar for the dawn of the day.
No star. No light. No candle burns.
The heart, once warm, is cold and still.
To rock, to lifeless stone it turns —
A tomb, shut fast, in night as chill.
And in that tomb, so cold, so bare,
Lies Love made flesh, and crucified.
No breath. No voice. No answer there.
The world stood dark the hour He died.
Then Joseph came, a secret friend,
And begged the Body, cold as clay;
He wrapped his Lord, and knelt to tend
The wounds, in grief and in dismay.
There Christ lay on the stone, alone
His journey through the world was done;
No warmth was left in flesh or bone;
The earth cried out beneath the sun.
No grief had ever pierced so sore,
No heart had ever bowed its head —
The dark that day was dark far more
Than any dark before the dead.
Yet lower still His spirit came,
Down to the deep, where dead men lay,
And broke the bonds of ancient shame
That held our father, bound for aye.
Far in the east, a light was born —
Not warm, not gold, but cold and thin;
No man yet knew, that fearful morn,
If Life could ever wake within.
Carrying soft, smooth feathered wings
To shield it's young from the tears of the sky
Whenever they fall
The bird wraps them in its wings
Offering warmth
Offering shelter
In every storm
Those wings become a refuge
Sometimes after a fierce fall
It's feathers are torn
And the bird slowly fades away
No one thanked it
For its silence sacrifice
No one sees it's wounds
They simply admire
The ones it saved
Never the wings
That broke for them......
I tried to heal my open wounds
I always seem to feel
They've gone away
But the scars still remain
And the ones on my heart
Will never heal
They wear me down
Tear me apart
I grieve for my old self
When the only pain I felt was a scraped knee
I wish I was okay
But I never will be
So I pretend
And wonder when it will end
But I’ll be fine
I always am
But I keep trying to heal
To feel real
And maybe im not
I am doing better.
I see my friends, I cook.
I laugh, I talk.
Must I always feel like this?
Alone and restless
In the dark hours of the morning
pricked by flowers thorns
how tender it once was
now dangerous
Old wounds have a way of knocking
when the house grows still at night,
appearing like familiar shadows
just beyond the reach of light.
They arrive in borrowed voices,
in memories dressed as truth,
wearing faces I once trusted
from the broken years of youth.
They whisper,
Perhaps you never healed at all.
Perhaps the scar is just a seam
waiting for the smallest pull
to split apart at every dream.
And for a moment,
I believe them.
I feel the ache beneath my skin.
I hear the echo of old battles
calling me to fight again.
But wounds are not the same as doorways.
Not every pain must let us through.
A scar remembers where we've traveled;
it does not tell us what to do.
So, I sit quietly beside it,
like an old friend passing by.
I do not run.
I do not follow.
I do not ask the reason why.
I simply let it have its moment,
the grief, the fear, the ancient ache.
Then watch it fade like distant thunder
across a sky it cannot take.
For healing was not being untouched.
It was learning, day by day,
that old wounds may still come knocking,
but I no longer have to stay.
Scars are better –
Better than the unseen wounds,
That penetrates deep down my heart
And make me a sour person,
Which I wasn't,
Scars are better than the incurable pain,
Those unseen daggers carved onto me,
SCARS are better-
Much better as they may be cured,
But this grief, this loss, not at all,
These can fade-
But the wounds that penetrate deep down,
Can never be cured,
Can never be cured-
That breaks the myth of being left alone,
Encouraging the Idea –
To Embrace the Void, The VOID that we still hold…
It was not the cruelty that shattered me;
it was the slow, treacherous alchemy of the heart -
how each wound you dealt seeped deeper into my bones
and, against all reason, taught me to love you more fiercely,
as if your abuse were proof of my inadequacy
and loving you harder might finally make me worthy.
There is boredom, there is pain,
both slip through me like a paper knife –
then there is the keen foil of love.
The partly serrated edge
of a butter knife is for cutting toast,
yet such an innocuous edge
can slowly saw through blood.
I walk into a Thrift Shop,
see a memory painted over porcelain,
it catches my eye; take it home,
while wiping off the dust,
it slips through my fingers.
Sweeping up the wreckage,
like an old crocodile
I shed a few muddy tears,
now too bored with pain
to write another love poem.
I open a blunt pocketknife
one she gave me, probably knowing
I would need to scratch at my wounds
from time to time.
I am in that in-between space
where nothing matters
yet everything does.
So much noise around me
while something quietly died inside.
Is it a magnetic frequency?
Misplaced energy?
Not to speak in codes—
I simply do not know anymore.
Surrounded by many,
yet still lonely.
Never truly understood.
No support from anyone.
Are we alone in this universe?
Do we pray to a God who does not exist,
or one who chooses not to listen?
Sometimes
I feel like a broken-winged Pegasus.
Will my wing ever mend?
Will I ever fly from this cliff—
to admire the stars
as the calming wind touches my face,
soaring higher
while the valley grows smaller below?
Tears run to my lips
as I watch the sun setting,
feeling the warmth of its fading glow.
At least that is what I imagined
for a wounded warrior
praying for days
of peaceful existence.
I still wonder—
will it have
a happy ending?
Rescue dogs need extra care.
They've been traumatized and marked for life.
They deserve extra love & care.
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
When the lights come on, memories evaporate. The walls of the room behave. Porous, primed, and paper white. Fear retreats where it learned to wait. And here I stand anew and unmarked. But, darkness does not forget. When the lights go out, the walls ooze and exhale. The dark consumes me once again. Old versions of myself return, merciless. Wounds not yet turned to scars resume their bleed. Guilt and regret dance like shadows. And I let them watch. They do not accuse. Extending their hands as if we once agreed to meet. They ask why I am startled. They have worn my face for years.
when the lights go out—
the ghosts I once left behind
breathe my name again
You've tended to my wounds.
Every day I'm getting stronger with you.
I'm basking in positive energy.
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
We come seeking the sunlight that seeps within our skin.
We come time and time again, picking the wound, slow to bleed.
We come with nothing feeling real past the point of infection
We come open, gaping,
waiting to scar
First we bruise
to see the proof of our love in intricate colors
A way to feel
Some wounds need open air
to heal
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