Because we are
what We Are,
the horror we have known (and
it is a horror) is
one borne
of flesh and blood.
We bear the children
of our desires,
these scars of the mind
(scars of mine),
these scabs of poor choices still picked at,
still weeping
(still throbbing,
never stopping),
the shrieking terror in the night
is our kin;
we call it brother,
and we welcome it inside
and give it a place to sleep.

No tags for this post.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
This entry was posted in Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.