Wounded and Gorgeous

writing21.png

Writing

Is the band-aid to my existence.

It covers the wound of my soul

With healing powers.

But sometimes,

That’s all it does.

Cover it up,

Appear to be healing

When really it’s just ready to overflow.

I can write my life

Into a pretty picture.

Synonyms, verbs,

Words that flow like water from a fountain

In the middle of the mall.

I can throw pennies into the fountain,

Appear rich with

Wishes going unfulfilled.

Or, I can make it ugly.

I can bleed onto the paper,

Smear the blood into words,

Mix the blood with sweat and tears

That never will amount to anything,

Anyway.

Writing can be truth.

It can be the mirror of a soul

Aching to break free from bondage,

Waiting for her moment to appear and announce

That she’s going to overcome.

I can dress her up,

Make her look appealing to the eyes.

Makeup and dresses and heels.

I can show her in her most

Vulnerable moments,

On her knees,

Begging for death,

Begging for that one last breath.

I can write anything I want,

I can make it look any way I want.

I am powerful, here, in these words.

Or am I the lost poet,

Waiting for the muse,

Writing about nonsense and hoping

Someone will understand my pain?

I can wear a mask in a mob

Or stand naked on a podium.

Today,

Will I bleed out on this bathroom floor,

Or evaporate into the earth,

Never to be seen again?

Will I tell it to you straight,

Or tell you, once again,

“I’m okay”.

I have the option.

I am the puppeteer.

And this blog is my stage.

  • September 14, 2016
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