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How should I write the story of my life?
Might not be polite to dwell on such strife.
How should I write my words? In blood?
That is often how it feels. Pin prick the finger,
Watch the blood drops. Not enough?
Dig deep; ignore the pain, the coagulating mess;
dig deep, break down the barriers. Emotions come from within,
words from the mind can help to minimise distress.
Sometimes they flow, rich and pure;
then stutter and stall, stubbornly endure.
Play Hide and Seek, tantalise and flirt;
those are the words that hide the most hurt.
Ink? Blood! Oxygen rich, pumping. Diluted by tears.
Suffused with rage; the embers of memory that linger,
refusing to change: what was surely was, is.
Instant forgiveness is not my style.
Carve memories in stone, let them dwell a while;
for which sins do I atone? Self flagellation might be your thing;
I’ve had my share. A primal scream begging release;
so much pain, demanding release.
Hot and metallic! Ink? Blood!
Poetry keeps us alive, feeds the soul,
releases our innermost thoughts.
Drags them to the light.
Images and abstractions, who is right?
How artfully we edit, add and subtract, set the scene,
call the cast; now, let’s replay the scene.
The words are easy to recall. Their meaning is not.
Poems written in blood, suffused with rage;
begging redemption, hogging the stage.
The embers of memory that refuse to die;
demanding explanation, want to know why.
In the end, it’s ink. It’s practical and cheap
Blood is too precious to be wasted on what we think.
Memories are memories; thoughts are thoughts.
Treat them with care, save what is real.
Tagged in les bush