Poetry is the process
of cleansing my wound,
the tweezers
for removing
grains of sand
inbedded in my skin.

Poetry is antiseptic
painfully applied
before the wound festers
salve rubbed in
fear of infection.

Poetry is the stiching clamp
held between my teeth,
the pain killer
so I can sleep.

Poetry is acceptance
of future scars,
and aches on foggy nights.

Poetry is a way of surviving
when a loved one dies.

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