The Taste of Life

Weaving word baskets.

 

Breathe my death from a hard pack

Drink my loss from a shot glass

Scream my confusion in notes

Mask my horror with artwork

 

Tied down on tracks by villains

Awkwardly take my whelps

So strange to miss the abuse

Times when my tormentors rest

Even silence and peace bruise

Sometimes I destroy myself

 

Love is a sweet abstraction

I have never cracked that code

Know that I’m a hollow grin

Eat my nasty medicine

 

Lie to the ones who know me

Invincible in traffic

Feeling the pain sustains me

Even if today numbs

me

Author's Note

Wear red tomorrow!

Reviews

[Viper9]

Now you're really living, my friend!

Must all forms of life be comfortable? Do we need to see unhappiness as a failing? Does torment need to be a problem to solve?

Your poem raises good questions in my mind.

One to come back to.

[Beatrice Boyle (Grandm..]

This conjures up stark visions of a tormented soul...beautifully expressed!

However, I sincerely hope this was not drawn from personal experience...no human being should be subjected to abuse, verbal or otherwise! This reeks of utter hopelessness and acceptance of things as they are.

God made us in his image...he suffered for us so we wouldn't have to!!!

God Bless
Beatrice Boyle (Grandma Bea)

[StrawberryDream]

I really enjoyed your poem... I was drawn to it from your comment actually, "Weaving word baskets". I've never heard that before- its really cute! :)