What’s this, my book on the shelf? 

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Deep Tissue Scars

These insecurities were formed when I perceived myself with all the hatred my mother showed for my father. I know his issues, but he has been dead for a while now, yet his dead-inside lives on in me through my imagination like a slave bearing the mark of his masters whip, I carry the deep tissue scars.

Every day for three years I talked to myself

(who doesn’t?)

through the wounds of vague memories my inner dialogue intertwined with all that is miserable and personified itself in the perfect vessel, that for many years I’ve heard beaten down my back, as being my “father’s son”.

I don’t know anything about my father except for the stories filled with neglect could tell, and when I failed to please I was whipped by the lash of “…you have your fathers blood”.

Perhaps I abandoned everything; that reminds me of me because I was the rot in the apple of my minds eye. Perhaps my lavish taste for wealth is merely my attempt to be the opposite of the beggar’s way my father lived, but all in all I was living in the shelter of a fantasy.

The songs I sing, the poems I write, the things I numbed my senses with, all to avoid using conventional means of escape. Regardless, deeper I pushed the image of my father, that image that evoked a deep sense of worthlessness into my heart, with every song I sang, every poem I wrote, every other thing I used to erase that feeling of

(now that I can word it clearly)

hatred.

I know what I need to do to lift myself from hatreds curse. I see clearly now it wasn’t my father that strangled my potential, as racism is not innate but taught I was indirectly taught to hate myself. The hate that I have for myself is the same hate my mother had for my father which is now the same hate imposed on me. This hate appeared innate, but it was incepted, as I bore it through the years I poured it lavishly passive aggressively on those around me.

I need to let go of the hurt that they owe me, the consequences of their actions deserve the purest form of vengeance. But in my heart of hearts I know that as I continue holding in the hurt they are due, I lose myself,
in every morning,
my inner dialogue,
cursing every angst when memory stirs,
how I cut my thought off,
and pretend that they do not exist,
that I do not exist,
that my past did not exist,
that I can rewrite my life from here on out,
but,
there it is again,
my memory stirs…
I know what I need to do to lift myself from this curse.

But I bite my lip because it is too hard
I need to forgive
So that I can heal my deep tissue scars

Mind’s Eye Muse

Adulterated bridled breath
Spoke one story of the dead
About their elongated posture,
Fusing thorny thoughts in head.

Bleeding eyes in the Broken,
Mused the sickly lonely souls,
Caught in thoughtwar
In the darkness,
With each drag
They’re getting cold.

Exhaling with veteran labor
Watching the curl of every line,
He rides along each breath
Like one who’s never tasted wine.

The Judge – Verdict pt 2

The Judge addresses the Criminal:

What reason to forgive you
There is nought in me bad,
Ceaseless giving of my issue
But you gone robbed yourself
Dead

For can one stand against me
What soul can withstand time?
Though by ceasing to be useful
You’ve committed a heinous crime.
When you’ve counted what I’ve given,
You’ll see you owe a debt
Of that life you were given,
You’ll be your one deepest regret.

Dirty Labour – Poem

Penned these thoughts with dirty labour,
Pins in notes that ‘I don’t care,’
Seamless anger from some beauty
Puncture wounds sent out from hell.
In the darkness holes they filled me,
Holes that filled this empty well,
Then some word spread far from danger
Spoke some truth that I can’t tell.
So I put my pen to motion
And scribed nothing I could sell
Cause her word contained no letters,
No symbol that I can spell.

By her one breath broke these fetters
Giving strength to help end well.
Now these scars are not unfitting,
I have learned to bear my shame,
And for all those that are hurting,
I know I’m the one to blame.
It is hard now in this moment
Not to grow weary from the hurt
I wish now that I could fix you,
But my words are filled with dirt.

On the backs of those around me
Won’t trust my thoughts in light again,
So by her word that is so precious,
I declare that I have sinned.
So to death I put my old ways
To begin to live again:

In her word that broke these fetters
Penned my will to exude good,
I strive now for absolute beauty
For the world to be understood.

– Christopher Dumitru

subtle tonic

Stop,
You didn’t hear it,
The music deep within
You’re writing an ocean of
Symbol
To drown your self within

No matter how deep that ocean
No matter how deep that word
No matter how deep you stuff it
You’ll cough out all the verbs:

Go do this later,
and perhaps do this too

Then once youve accomplished it,
You’ll retreat into the booze.

So stop until you hear it,
Or at least wait till then,
By breathing in some music
That subtle tonic mixed with gin.

– Christopher Dumitru