You! Number the tidbits of trauma in me
Underlying me, trying me, frying my brain,
Driving insane,
Sending spirals miles down wells to hells
That I created, where I am hated.
What comes of me? Nothing to be
But a shell or a hull, a husk or a skull.
Empty inside—no self, not alive.
Julian Wise 
I’ve just realized that poems about suffering wonderfully illuminate one of the “metaphorical truths”, that beauty can be found through pain. Thank you for showing me that through your writing.
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