Pain

Thinking about yesterday's poem, 'Hollow', I'm reminded of what a bitter person I was, and still can be; of how even though I try be full of joy and hope, to focus on others and not on myself, it is too easy to slip back into a pattern of selfishness, bitterness and even anger.

And although I was, in general, a rather lively and happy teenager, there was always an undercurrent of bitterness, loneliness and sadness, which every now and then bubbled closer to the surface than was good for me. So for poems 8 and 9 we'll take a short ride on that undercurrent, and then gradually as we move on through the week, we'll hopefully leave it behind.

Poem 8: Pain, September(?) 1999, age 16

It is what I feel
When nobody understands,
Or when I strike a match
And put it out on my own hands.

It is the hammer in my head
Perhaps my hair is held too tight,
It is the blender in my stomach
Keeping me awake at night.

Shaving, a little deeply,
My weak ankle might be twisted,
Dry dead skin on my feet
I'll pull it off when it has blistered.

It is what I feel
When cold runs down my spine
Or when tears burn heavy in my eyes
Because everything is just fine.