They often walk without drooping heads.
I live among them for a reason.
Not displaced, stabbing over.
The wounded are not ugly,
Perhaps hallow in the areas
Behind the oozing.
If there were no angry, gapping wounds
The people may see the threads missing
In the world they were torn from.
I am yet gone,
But stepping up to the exit.
Yet, forming armor as I turn to the door,
Makes me a tender target
For the weapons I am leaving behind.
I am a writer with an extremely active imagination. I love learning answers to questions and what makes everything and everyone tick. I am a "Unique case, medically" if nothing else. I am flawed in my extreme aversion to failure (even when "success" isn't good for me,) but have come a long way in ditching the perfectionist mindset. I like people whose default setting toward others is compassion, an open mind, and honesty View more posts
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SickyBeat
The most original and important poetry about the “wounded” ever written. And I have read and still read a lot of poetry.
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Best compliment I have ever received, thank you!
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