The Language of Healing
The pain is more than skin deep.
It hurts when you move.
It hurts when you surrender to it.
It goes beneath the sutures.
You cannot see it, or predict it,
or prevent it.
And so you write. Raw and ugly poems.
Seeking the words you most believe
even when the pain is fresh and new.
It is perhaps, the worst time to write.
There is not enough of you to temper your language.
The softness you treasure leaves you
And it all feels like a scream or a rant or worse,
It makes you angry, this pain.
You were only just beginning to become comfortable
with the language of joy,
A new thing you wallowed in like a pig in mud,
gloriously happy, unexpectedly happy,
mad with it.
And then, this. A soul raw as new scars.
And the old words come back to you,
the language of pain.
But only for now. Yes, the pain persists
but you have been broken before.
You know the drill. There is work to do
and the work hurts.
But more importantly,
the work works, and teaches you something new,
the language of healing.
About this poem
Like most of my poems, this one started as one thing and became something else. Poetry it seems, has a life of its own.
Have a blessed weekend.