Scar Tissue

Chimera Poetry

Old words,
old wounds.
Words shot in anger,
 in ego,
 in fear,
my heart being an endless target,
while my easily filled eyes tell you when you’ve scored.
Old words,
old wounds.
Rise up like marching furrows,
the scar tissue has made lines
like grimacing smiles,
a map of the ways a person can be split in two,
can be ripped apart,
 and still live.
No magician with his chain bright saw can do so well.
©jayetomas2015

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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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