Thu, 07/17/2014 - 13:37 -- ljwilli



These scars of mine

 are like a scrap book with memories

I’ve got the good,

the bad don’t bother me,

scrape the ugly away with my tears.


My pain never fades away

and my suffering is stone through a glass,

stone hard into my heart,

stones into my skin.

Turn the page.


The cuts of glass you are leaving me, Mama

Are now burning without you here nursing my cuts.

That is now opened and a little deeper.

Whimpering and crying for you to make it better like before

Now I’m sulking in my own pain, wishing it will go away

But It didn’t….you did

Death is a four-leaf clover pressed inside a bible.

Exodus for the heart.

When I look in the mirror,

I see my scrapbook,

your memory in my eyes,

the tilt of my chin.

Relative pain.

You took care of me.

And now death has taken you.

I was 11 when you died.

In your room with a smile on your face

That lives up the room even though you were lifeless

Folks say I was too young to really know you,

 but I know I have scars like open files,

or coming out of a printer too fast.

I can’t place enough pictures fast enough.

You always said to me,

“Baby, you a tree growing and I love you.”

My grief goes smallest to the largest

I put you picture in the book,

But I don’t forget.



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