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Bullet Holes
May 6, 2013
I'm the external product of frustration,
of the artist whose paint can never dry.
There's a difference between us.
We're skin deep, but we're not the same.
I can cut myself here and now-
Blood curdles to ink, and my heart's here on the page.
I can stand naked in the sun-
body hidden, soul exposed.
And my scars cower from the light,
scrapes and holes, they're all the same.
I can close my eyes and dwell in darkness-
my beating heart the echo of captivity.
But the bitter taste still stabs my tongue,
there's no such thing as being alone; not anymore.
© Joseph S., San Anselmo, CA
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