Tuesday, November 3, 2015


There are a few pricks that can penetrate
the chinks in my armor; rip me apart;
expose me; cause me to exsanguinate;
pulsing red passion from my beating heart.

For one, to question my integrity,
or give me orders like an underling,
or if someone critiques my family,
or if someone disrespects my calling.

But even more than this my daughter’s voice
sweet, and innocent; she has done no wrong.
But I see my own wrongness of my own choice
sung back through only a purest love’s song.

Then I see through fog composed of my pain
my pride holds the razor that cuts my vein.

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