I can look at my hands
and see the scars,
the dead skin,
and the hate
that water cannot wash away.
And I imagine
that if I could look at my soul,
it would be the same thing
all over again.
Scars,
death,
and hate.
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Reviews of "Soul"
Reviewed by Birdie Houston (Reader)
Reviewed on March 3, 2003
I enjoyed your write Jason !
Reviewed by T. Emilie Dybevik (Reader)
Reviewed on March 3, 2003
So sad Jason. Good write. Teresa
Reviewed by Elizabeth Taylor (Reader)
Reviewed on March 3, 2003
This is a well written poem.
Glad I stopped by.
~E
But somewhere in you flows rivers of love that can wash away every scar, hate, and death. Thanks for sharing an emotional piece.
Reviewed by na na (Reader)
Reviewed on March 3, 2003
Jason, it is so hard to feel like this about yourself. I have felt the same way too, and it ripped my heart out, and these feelings brought me to my knees. I still am trying to put my life back together. So don't ever think you are alone. Bill
“The woman or man who is a poet, or fiction writer, or playwright, or all of these, is engaged constantly in a jazz ballet of vocabularies, passions, genders, histories, perspectives, death, love, and life. The music of revelation announces itself to
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Glad I stopped by.
~E