Not yet through the woods, let alone over the mountain.

1.
Cold porcelain stained and solitary.
For the last hour it has been constantly raided;
it's contents carefully removed then refilled.
I worship at its lip, and give thanks.
For without its offering of warm liquid,
I would never last through the night.

2.
Memories still punish my soul.
The same thoughts that breed anger and resent
are the best bits of my history.
I am better for recounting them
and yet my mind lashes me;
leaving deep wounds on my back.
Do I enjoy the punishment? the Suffering?
Repeating the reel of yesterday,
a worn home movie of a violent past.
It hardens my resolve, mistakes not to be repeated;
each time the movie plays I see more hope,
flashes between the frames.

3.
Anti-coagulant shoved into an already hemorrhaging heart
breeds more than heartburn and ulcers.
Blindsided by a warm past waiting for closure,
not a snake but a subconscious looming in the tall-grass.
I'm out of tears, for once they do not come so easily
there is more pain from the lack of emotion.
The water that was once under the bridge
is drowning me.

4.
We need to be knocked about,
we need to break and bleed.
There is no lesson in idling.
There are no calluses from daydreams,
only well-honed regret and atrophy.
There is temptation in avoiding the world;
escaping the stress and strain.
With smooth, soft hands comes naivete.

5.
To heal is to welcome the salty tide;
memories washing over open sores.
In and out, euphoria and burning agony
tears accompanying all sensations.
The sores become scars and pock marks;
the sea hardens your flesh.
With time the scars fade from your eyes
but they always remain on your soul.