Picking at Poetry
That pen is a pick
A shovel
A trowel
Picking away at the dirt.
The dirt that covers
That tomb of emotions
Hidden away so long ago.
So long ago
Hidden away.
Buried under anger
Submersed under fear
Masked by resentment
Was the me that I know
The me that I’ve known
The me that I knew
On some early day
Of those early days
Of my being.
And the pen shovels down
Deeper. Much Deeper.
There. Do you feel it?
I almost felt it.
That me who was silenced.
Who was gagged
And left screaming
Quietly. Silently.
Cursing surrender.
The pen hit the core.
Oh my. Don’t you feel it?
Those emotions once buried
And hidden away.
That now lay discovered
By a pen.
A pen held by a hand
A hand that I know
A hand that I’ve known
A hand that I knew
On some early day
Of those early days
Of my being.