The Pained Poem by Justin Short

The pained will continue to struggle to breathe
Pushing pollution past whimpering trees
The journey they take on crumbling knees
The chains that they wear are so hard to free

Their viewpoint is smog, contamination and waste
They feed off of pain; there is death in their taste
Their tongues will now mold when they do as their told
A statue collapses with the arms that they hold

Their feet walk on ground that is shattered with glass
The station in front sits a train that won’t pass
Obscurity lies behind the pained ones
Their pottery painted by all will be shunned

Eyes of disease, waste and filth in their face
Footsteps in mud trace the steps in their pace
The weight of the world dragging them in the mire
Their wrists will be scarred in the razor-blade wire

Ankle bones snap in the frozen, far land
Making them fall on their knees and their hands
The ground is the warmest of places they find
They drag themselves in to the back of their mind

A friend is the one who will stand as a shield
Taking the pain, as if it is theirs to feel
The sun have been shining yet they fail to see
They spit out their blood and their tears and their teeth

To be born again would endure the same pain
Everyone struggles to find out their name
Their title they give to themselves, yet unknown
The title does change as they begin to grow

They now see the past and redeem back their fate
Pushing the paint off their porcelain plate
Pretending will never make fame or a way
We all must make effort to make it til day

All have their torment, their debt and their fear
All have their giants who scream in their ear
Replacing the pain with light is a goal
Much better than digging yourself a great hole