Pain Makes the Poet

My persistent

resistance to life,

showed the best in me,

engaged the rage

and sewed

the seeds of destiny.

Don’t rescue me.



The Forsaken



I mined my memories with no thought,
For my own safety, no harness or shield,
As I capered down the corridors to catch
What cowered in the catacombs of conscience.

Something cringed in the consciousness,
And as I stripped the valley of my morose mind,
(forsaking the raw materials and abusing myself,
By removing the ore of opportunities and,

Culling the capacity to choose).
All that was left in the darkness, the harshness,
Was a feral child, who will become oblivious
To pain and defiant in the face of oblivion.