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.

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