Saturday, August 29, 2009


Thin and cold,

Hard against the white of my skin.

Pressure is my slave,

Control my master.

Bone deep,

And the game is over,

It means,

I beat my master.

Slightly cutting,

The depth of human hair,

No stitches needed,

Let it heal in the air.

Those are the effects of control,

On a good day I only need the air,

Control then is my master,

And my master is fair.

Other days,

When there is more shadow,

Than sun,

And my control runs low,

The pain is like a gun,

Hot and deep,

Cutting soft,

Wonderful pain.

But still my master wins,

As I instruct my slave,

To save me for later,

His we can not save.

When its' wrong,

When I can't draw the blade,

I cut wide swaths,

Through my minds glade.

Leaving the pain,

To be healed,

As though I had,

Stripped from myself a peel.

The wonderful pain of the first cut,

Through the pain of healing,

The illusion of the pain,

Is my way of feeling.

This is one of my favorite poems from a couple years ago. To me it shows the depth some people will go to be able to experience a feeling. The one question I have not been able to answer though is what events in their lives took them to the place that the only thing they could feel was pain? Mental or physical? A friend of mine read this and several day later took me aside and told me that I had captured the way she felt at the time to a tee. It was one of the most humbling experiences of my life. It was the fact that the words I had put together from my mind had accurately described something that I had no personal knowledge of. It was then that I knew the words were true. Absolutely Amazing!! Robert E

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