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Owen Moore Poem
They say if you kiss a wound it will heal
But I am covered in scars
My nails and teeth dig deep
As I tear myself apart
All curled up in a ball, alone,
I study the multitude marked
And my wounds, salted with tears,
Tell my memoir
“I wish there was someone here for me”
I tell myself, afraid
“Someone to lighten the load,
To help me put down this blade”
But the knock goes unanswered,
As my body slowly decayed,
And I bear witness, to the mess
That I have made
“The man in the mirror is weak”
My voice angrily demands
“He is no one and will become no one
If you do not raise your hand”
I keep destroying myself
Following my own command
Falsely believing to be self healing
But I can’t understand
And some years go by,
And I have turned cold.
A heart, once beating
Now infested with mold
Why couldn’t I see love is what I need?
Not to be controlled?
My ambition and self loathing
Put me over the threshold
Now you’ve heard my story
You judge of sin
Look at me now! See the truth
See what lies within
Not a man or a soldier
Nor anyone with kin
Just a person who wept
And cut at their skin
But if you’ve walked this path,
Felt this same despair,
Know you are not alone
There’s love waiting somewhere.
Don’t let the mirror deceive you,
Or the silence pull you in.
What’s broken can be mended,
Even wounds deep within.
Copyright © Owen Moore | Year Posted 2025
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Details |
Owen Moore Poem
As I sit here, melancholy
Surrounded by filth, full of folly
I did this to myself, why complain?
And then I stuff my face again.
Copyright © Owen Moore | Year Posted 2024
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Owen Moore Poem
M4
Lightweight—
“You are so skinny, Trainee!
You’ll never be a soldier.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, tightly,
each word heavier than steel.
Magazine-fed—
“You need to eat something, son.
He is gone, but you’re still here.”
My face is pale, drained of color.
Each memory chambers in.
Gas-operated—
“Soldier, what the hell is that?
Can’t you even shoot your gun?”
My fingers tremble, shaking,
pistons locked in helpless shame.
Shoulder-fired—
“Shoot back, god damn it! Shoot back!”
The weight of orders holds me down.
My finger pulls the trigger.
The recoil crushes into me.
Weapon—
I squeeze my eyes shut, tightly.
My face is pale, drained of color.
My fingers tremble, shaking .
My finger pulls the trigger.
Copyright © Owen Moore | Year Posted 2024
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