Guest Feature~Body’s Raw Wound~Lance Sheridan

bodys-raw-wound

The dark moon shadow stalks me down,
Its dust bags of light scar me;
In a touch, flesh, bone, blood quickens,
I pick off the worms, drunk from a lick.
I walk the night, haggard through the
White street lamps, singeing filaments
Cataract my eyes. Obscure vision

Corkscrewing down storm drains. And the
Shadow, like a black wolf, each paw on
Me a brier; my doom consummates a bodily need;
It snares me, hungry, hungry. It eats
To satisfy a need, I am gutted to an undertaker.
Blood floods to a spot, purple; the rest of me
Is whitewash board, stiff as I crawl down a sidewalk.

Its tread is a weighted enemy, my heart shuts,
It peels me like linen; its breath anesthetizes and shoves
Me into a bad dream. It feels like hell;
Charred and ravened in snarled thickets of ash.
I disappoint them, I pray for a heaven,
To a god. This earth I rise from, let my soul writhe in like dew.
I am stepping from this skin, featureless into eternity.

Copyright © 08/14/18 lance sheridan®
You can read more of Lance’s work at, Lance Sheridan ~Plaited Poems~

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Guest Feature: Recovery Looks a Lot Like Picking Up a Paintbrush~Samantha Rose

My skin isn’t paper
But that doesn’t stop me from carving the weight of the world
Into my wrists,
Crimson blood tiger stripes

Or from ripping apart the pages of a story
I never asked to be in
Don’t judge a book by its coverup
That is, pant legs and long sleeves

And betting on depression
Is like gambling with slits instead of slots,
The butterflies in my stomach
Are wingless wasps

But sometimes, scars do fade
And one day when I picked up a paintbrush
My story came back to me,
One letter at a time

And I saw my skin was flecked with gold instead of blood
The punctured veins on my hands became sapphire cracks
Ochre and acrylics filled my broken lungs
Instead of black tar and mothballs

And now, when I say my skin is a canvas
I mean to say
Not that I bleed in vivid color
But that I have paint running through my veins,

And you may often find me sketching ink roses on my wrists
And walking tightropes of guitar strings and poetry ~

 

 
*You can read more of Samantha Rose’s work on
Existential Poetry