Wounded Healer III

Goddess of Forests

I’m shedding everyone’s tears
but I can’t shed my own.
I’ve got it all under control in public;
I’m a mess when I’m alone.
Pain has injected itself into me;
I can feel it bite through each bone.
I’m decaying on the inside,
but this body is not mine to disown.

My heart and soul are drowning,
and I can’t stretch my hands
to reach them through my throat.
They’ve absorbed too much;
they’re heavy,
but I can’t save them.
I can’t drain the tears and blood;
I can’t heal them.

So, I’ll shed my tears through my mouth.
I’ll cry with my hands and feet,
with my words,
and with my songs,
and with my dance,
till I feel my heartbeat.
I’ll shed my tears as sweat;
they can’t pass through my eyes just yet.

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First Aiders for Broken Hearts

Wind-Song

“Wingsong” by Michael Escoffery

No one can touch
a broken heart like a writer.
Even doctors are not skilled enough
in matters of the heart like that.

The writer drills the love-hole in
the reader’s heart further with their pen,
which may or may not be painful,
removing the rest of the waste
that was left behind,
or that the reader had tried to fill
the empty space in it with.

Then they may fill the hole up with words,
promises of a love that would be easier and sweet.
That is the most the writer can do,
for no one else can completely heal
the injured heart except the one
that the reader truly loves.
Else, their heart may never be fully healed,
and they may hurt themself and others.

If the reader does not dig the writer’s words out,
and they try their best to trust again,
they may be fine till “the one” comes,
the new one that will give them new love,
for the writer’s first aid keeps the
heart alive till the reader meets
and becomes their own healer.

Painting

Her flowers grew from her seed;
her poems grew from her pain.
She had to bleed to be free;
then she danced in a trance with the rain.

She’s a pain-ter.
She kisses grief on the lips
and moulds it into art.

 

Wounded Healer

The best healers have been
severely wounded themselves.