We the wounded,
Weeping, awash in agony;
Aghast in our sufferings,
Living through excruciating situations,
Maintaining silence for unfathomable durations,
Feeling our efforts are in vain,
Feeling alone in our pain,
But we are not alone.

We the wounded,
A varying spectrum of illness and injury,
Of those displaced and disowned by wholiness,
Are the majority.
We can be our first priority;
And have the agency
To break the habit of wait-and-see complacency;
Which can be very scary.

How can we carry
Such weight when our bones are nothing but broken seashells crushed to sand?
When the rivers of arteries and veins are damned,
Or slit, bleeding into the soil of our flesh and skin?
Our muscles, lute strings taut with constant tension
Or laying limp having snapped?
How is it we persist and adapt?

We the wounded,
Struggling, showing up,
Regressing then pressing forward,
Progressing our way toward
And the belief
That we are healing.
We are dealing with our feelings,
Continuing to survive,
Continuing to strive,
Because one day we will thrive.
We are alive.
We are the ones that could not be defeated
Or vanquished-
Despite repeated
Attacks of anguish-
By what has woefully, ravenously consumed others.
Brothers, sisters, fathers, mothers,
A community under constant threat,
We the wounded,
Are not fucking dead yet.


Writer of poetry, dark fiction, and social commentary; Reading and writing about the human experience.

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