Pain Vs. Pain

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  • Sadness

    Pain Vs. Pain

    Within the darkness of the closing of my eyes I see her smile,
    And through the night as i sleep I dream of her while.
    My heart sinks deeper in an endless pit,
    And is torn to pieces from the sandy grit.
    What gift to have to see pain before it can live,
    And still love and go through the motion and give all of you that you have to give.
    As i cleans myself my skin begins to feel raw,
    For i seem to feel i can scrub the pain from me yet still i feel it gnaw.
    At every little breathe I take and every heart beat,
    It begins to create a scar that bleeds through my skin and i feel it drip from my head to my feet.
    Each time I look into the mirror i am afraid for i forget the look of my own eyes.
    To see right into me and see me through all of my smiles and cries.
    To feel the happiness I once felt only to feel it end in pain,
    To feel me lose and fail and from them have nothing to gain.
    Then to live each day as the pain grips every smile i force on my face,
    it hold every happy though and crushed them holding them in an unknown place.
    I walk around throughout the day afraid to let anyone in because i know what will happen in the end,
    Darkness begins to overcome and any light that once shined begins to bend.
    Until it burst and shatters into sharp pieces that cut me as they fall,
    And shatter once more as the hit the ground so i may see no more light at all.
    But to my dismay a sadistic self inside made me feel once again,
    And now I fight each day just to keep a friend.
    How can something feel so good but feel so bad all at the same time,
    No matter what the answer all i know is that this pain is real and it is mine.
    So I shall carry it with me every single day,
    And when it comes to a point when that sadism self tries to make me feel again I will fight that new pain with pain and make it go away.

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    A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

    Paranormaldick’s Poems (2)

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