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 View
Quick analysis:
Scheme | ABBAXX CXXCDD EFFEGG EHHEII |
---|---|
Closest metre | Iambic tetrameter |
Characters | 823 |
Words | 171 |
Stanzas | 4 |
Stanza Lengths | 6, 6, 6, 6 |
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"The Wound" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 23 Apr. 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/88350/the-wound>.
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