We all have pain.
Some more than others.
Some people feed
its scraps
to the hungry dogs.
Some people take
it to the bank,
stowing it away
in a dusty
safe deposit box,
fading to nothing
upon its key holder’s
fade to nothing.
Others fling it
in the face of the
world at large,
an unfortunate fate
for innocents
crossing the paths
of emotional maniacs.
Some people
own
their pain.
They take it
into their arms
and cradle it
like a newborn,
losing sleep
and time
just the same,
feeding it from
their well of
inner strength,
nurturing
until it
matures enough
to reason with.
Matures enough
to comprehend
how cruel the
world can be.
Matures enough to
make peace with.
Matures enough
to let go of
like a parent
waving goodbye
over a parade
of packed boxes
and painfully
joyful embraces.
Some people
fabricate their pain
knowingly and willingly,
masquerading as
the victim
in a cruel and
unfair world.
For others,
the world defines
cruel and unfair,
and some,
they let it break them.
Others wear the pain
like a pulsating
badge of
bloody honor,
feeding from its
richly caloric
bittersweet powerhouse,
owning it,
embracing it,
overcoming it but
never forgetting
the poisonous needles
prodding them
toward success.
We are brothers
and sisters,
mothers and fathers,
lovers and givers,
us all,
and the pain
doesn’t define us.
We define
the pain.
We define
the suffering.
We fuck up
and falter.
We squander
and abuse,
We withdraw
and explode,
We love and learn
while defining
our pain,
and it drives
us farther than
the finest
fossil fuel
when you
give it
the homage
it deserves.
“Cotton rows crisscross the world
And dead-tired nights of yearning
Thunderbolts on leather strops
And all my body burning
Sugar cane reach up to God
And every baby crying
Shame the blanket of my night
And all my days are dying”
– The Memory, Maya Angelou
Renee Novosel
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Copyright 2014
Wallflower Whimsy 