Scars Poem by Phillip Alan Green

In the darkest hours, right before the dawn,
When my mood is low,
And twilight moves to morn,
Pain throbs at twisted mention,
I punish myself in sick revenge.

My eyes look at the nothing that matters,
Daughters past and son is misting,
The objects of pain, not mine; but hers,
So tired of the ebb of tears,
And irony that its me who cares.

I close my eyes to image formed,
Dark bird on white that flies to me,
Constant, beating, in psychotic storm,
It cries; my mind is weeping,
And I long for the strength of endless sleep.

Years of dreams are turned to ash,
Like the substance I took to fake my life,
Secret silence as my form is crushed,
And the marks on my body are placed to feel,
As testament that some scars don’t heal.

A tiny thread a memory, forms deep within,
A strand of a long forgotten self, it begs, hold on, hold on!
A tiny voice like silver, that states do not give in,
And I look to the scars on myself that are real,
Placed to remind that I’ll never heal.

Made it through another day.