The Wound



I did not pick my runny nose
I picked the dry scab instead
And saw black flesh oozed red
A sort of ruby rot in the rose
Its an old wound lying there
Under the skin that covers fear.

Children get wounded a silly way
Climbing trees, breaking a tooth
On the stony pit of ripened fruit
Imitating adults when they play
I got wounded losing all my loves
Like feathers from flightless doves

I love like how my mother loved me
No cuddling or caress, no nice words
She fed and clothed me, and like birds
Nudged me from the nest, no sympathy
For the cold, hard world, my flight
Was straight into the glimpse of delight.

I wounds in my hands deep as memory
I got pain in my heart, hungry for you
The flesh will heal if its clean blue
I am not the waste of your dead history
I am just the scab that covers your lies
You are the way, but I am the first prize.
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Submitted on July 07, 2013

Modified on March 05, 2023

51 sec read
1

Quick analysis:

Scheme ABBAXX CXXCDD EFFEGG EHHEII
Closest metre Iambic tetrameter
Characters 823
Words 171
Stanzas 4
Stanza Lengths 6, 6, 6, 6

David Smalling

I have been writing poems since I was 12 years; but writing had been my blanket for loneliness since age 11. My father died when I was 13 and poetry was my therapy for pain since then. Only I wanted the world to think, feel, laugh, but not cry. I had been forgotten in the grief of my father's death because everyone else needed the consolation I did not get. I became the even more the withdrawn loner, and saw a world more aggressively hostile. Books became my better friend and drove me deeper into academic seclusion. I wrote thousands of poems everywhere: on rocks, trees, sand, and all over house and school - this was how I interrogate the world, and how I weep alone. Poetry was my quest and comfort. I trusted paper and pen and spoke my truths to them above all else. Yes, I am graduate, a business major, a science major, an humanities major ... still searching for consolation, love, security, and joy obtained in poetry. Then again Jamaica is such an ideal place to live as a poet; the history and memories, juxtaposed against the world, is pure inspiration. more…

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