It Is Not Without Woe

Early morning iciness,

like shards of glass ripping its' way,

through fragile skin.

Taking me,

dragging me,

back to this earth.

Oh how a little while longer!

I long for the silence,

the numbness,

to hear the nothing and everything,

of a mind at work,

at rest.

Because,

in the motion of thinking,

I am brought back,

to the things of this world.

To see imperfections of I,

ones not even hunger can fix,

how stupid!

Seeing these things,

behind a devil made of glass,

reflective no less.

It again,

has the iciness.

Deeper and harder,

shards being driven into my skin.

Can no one see the pain?

A thousand white hot fires,

licking up my sides,

my throat,

my face.

Consuming me.

And my everything.

It is not without woe,

that my silent cry falls on deaf ears,

yet seeing eyes.

Are you deaf but blind?

I should think not.

Why then?

Won't you use the things you've been given to use?

Maybe sometime later,

when the light of the things I have seen,

leaves these piercing eyes forever.

Sending me into a darkness,

no potion can erase.

Maybe then my love,

you will notice and see.

See these pains in my eyes,

the hurt in my voice,

and pain in my gait.

And you will know.

Maybe then, 

you will know.