backbreaking, heavy

seeking proximity,

to those who understand there’s pain,

know it can’t all be pretty,

removing their blinders,

they have the will to see

all the worlds around them,

joy and beauty,

intermingled with fire,

depth, wounds, agony

guilt, abandonment,

attachments formed within,

informed by our parents

at the earliest age,

informed by our peers

in our vulnerable years,

informed by society,

cruel lies that it tells

stigmas, poets have them,

bleeding hearts, depressed

unless we choose to

write about nature or art,

we are desperate for love,

in all the wrong hearts,

torturing our minds

with intensity unmatched

this is all just labels,

every poet knows this best,

we are the voices of the voiceless,

writing words from bleeding pens,

and if that makes me a stigma

in society’s fake “Zen”,

let it be, let rain come

like cleansing drops from heaven.

Emily C. Poésie © 2018

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