Suffer the pain

Once our image cracks and begins to unravel,
Punched in the face by reality,
We begin to understand that,
Substance is not wished or imagined,
It is created by will and work.
There are no wonderful people born,
No talent or luck or magic,
Only people that more than others,
Longer than others or smarter than others,
Suffer the pain.

We often mistake the image that we want to achieve,
With what we are now, no there is work to be done,
Get that cracked mold that holds you back and,
Begin to transform yourself into something of value.
The value of being one of the few that can sustain pain,
The one that others cheer because they know,
Because they feel drawn to your power,
Because you conquered the tallest peak,
Of the tallest mountain,
And you are there to show them the way.

Born a Slave

If you are born a slave,
How do you un-slave yourself?
What part do you remove,
What joint you twist and make you free?
There is no manual, guide,
They are so few, so rare,
They have but knowledge,
Share, you share, what do you share?
Love, pain, shaking hands or humid eyes,
Share, between ideas, tears.
You take your information to the place that burns,
Make room for more.

World of Sleep

In the world of sleep,
And of headache,
The brain is shaken like flour,
The vision is perturbed, a bit sour.

I remember when all was crisp,
Those are times that I really miss,
Having the certainty of a quick step,
There is nothing like a good ol’ headache.

From The Furnace

You bring fire to words,
From the furnace, that runs with the horrors of the people you love.

Unexpressed books gathered, covered in skin,
Absolutely it hurts when you skim.

Through the wounds, you bring light in the places you find,
Reaching deep like a hand through the vine.

In you, there’s something divine,
You bring fire to words and all’s fine.

Pain Of The Pain

All the words that we use to abuse,
Just to splinter the wood,
Split up in cracks as we should,
Just admit that we feed,
On the pain of the pain.

Part broken, part sane,
In one hand, axe,
On the other, wraps.
Do you feel like a killer?
Or a healer?

Painting the pain

Painting the pain,
In short breath strokes,
With everything but hands,
In tears and in thoughts,
Your hands, are reaching for the canvas,
Thick oil bleeds, from head to toe,
The canvas, blank, and you all painted.