This is How It’s Made

This is how it’s made,
in loving neglect,
a heavy smattering of
fiery abuse, of anger
too often triggered,
too rarely controlled,
of intimacy betrayed
and used like a knife
to wound,
not enough to kill,
but just enough to leave you
drained of blood,
drained of passion,
kept in your place
and leave you isolated
from those saddened and afraid
of the bloody truth.

This is how it’s made,
not in a firework filled flash,
but leeched out
drop by drop,
an anemia of love,
caused by fear, or need
or some other mystery you cannot grasp
as you slowly become invisible,
even to yourself.

This is how it’s made,
the chiseling away of the very passion
that once excited,
but somehow became dangerous
enough that you could no longer be allowed
to live,

But life is a persistent beast,
most dangerous at it’s end,
as it hangs on knowing that last spark
is flickering,
This is where the battle begins in earnest,
just at the moment they believe
victory is theirs,
you rise, determined not
to disappear.
rise with nothing left to lose
except the last scrap of your essence,
and fight or flee or both,
with strength you never expected,
unwilling, no, unable
to succumb any longer
to the draining death decades in the making.

This is how it’s made.

About this poem

Things are never as simple, or surprising, as they seem. There is a hidden history.

My son, who recently moved up with me, loves the show “How It’s Made”. So do I for that matter.

From those two things, this poem.

Tom