Oh, but I've always known what it feels like not to be loved.
It's a curse of suffering that comes from something unseen.
It bestows on me such insecurities.
The air from my lungs sometimes ceases to fill,
and I'm smothering like a bee who at this moment stung its prey,
fluttering, gasping, and just wasting away.
Jesus himself has no mercy on me,
can't you see, his intent to make me suffer just as he.
I look forward by lifting my head,
holding it up, but still feeling dread.
To wake in this world is like the living dead,
though, a part of me longs to be alive,
as alive as a beautiful bird that soars in the blue sky.
However, I only seem to be the strings of a sadly played violin,
cut and tortured under its battering bow
gently weeping with every screeching stroke.
Although many lessons learned are my gift, I suppose,
It's the scars of my life that still whittle my bones.
Am I wise beyond my days, so it seems,
yet, I would give wisdom up for one true love scene?
Share This Poem