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Member since 2003 · Posted 29 Sep 2006 · 4 comments

My life reminds me much of a child, running through a meadow, with a smile from ear to ear, gaspy giggles, everything's perfect...they're safe. Then, it all ends, so quickly, the happiness, the laughter, the smiling...all that begins is a distant cry...just a dry cry, no tears, the pain is trying to come out, but all that's coming out is the blood from the scab...the child tripped, so quickly...tripped over a rock. My fears remind me of that rock...ending my happiness all at once, without warning...the scab reminds me of how much pain flows out of me, but no one offers a hand...the silent cry...reminds me of my silent cries for help...the one's I disguise with smiles and laughs...when will someone offer to help...just as someone would offer a hand to the wounded child and would carry them to safety...when will someone carry me to safety?

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mean 4.50 weighted 4.87 rank 10341 views 146 View voting details →

6 votes so far. Yours would make 7.6 votes so far

4 comments

[7] nypoet22 30-Sep-06/7:09 AM Reply

this seems more like outright prose than a prose poem. it's gentle and meaningful, but i'm just not sure that it carries its weight without an essay or story attached. it's a good read.

[7] Fayt › nypoet22 30-Sep-06/11:22 PM Reply

agreed completely

[2] nentwined 4-Oct-06/6:32 PM Reply

meh.

[6] Shuushin 4-Oct-06/6:59 PM Reply

a scab implies a healing wound, no?

I'd like to see this said with fewer, more powerful imagery.