Some poems are long,
Because they’re ragged tatters,
Of spirit.
Flickering like flame in wind.
Refusing to go out.
Needing oxygen to breathe.
Holding our breath,
Until it hurts.
Some poems,
Are scars.
Oil paintings,
Of old traumas.
In all their ugly glory.
Please,
Don’t hurt me.
Oil Paintings Of Old Traumas.
