Motivation

The boils grew like cherries;
small, shiny, clustered,
fiery-red and hard as rage.
Stuffed to screaming
with their own venom,
they vomited torrents
of poisoned blood and
three green-white cores of pus,
little jellied lumps of disgust.
Exorcised, the boils shut their mouths
and healed, leaving prim lips of scar.
Those boils hurt worst
just before they drained,
I recall
as I write the last line of a poem.

Reviews

[Helen]

Let all that festers as a roiling seething mass under our skin be exorcised by the words that lance our wounds to clear the toxin and heal into a neat little scar... It only every closes over when we spill the blood and toxin onto the tissue, bandage, page... Oh the pain!

Having suffered from the literal of this poem, I have tiny scars and I have noticeable scars...
Having suffered from the emotionality of this poem, I have tiny scars and I have noticeable scars...

Joel! You have so perfectly blended the white with the black and the shades that create this wonderful piece of poetry is perfectly shimmering into the real world...

[Judy Ponceby]

Ummm......Ewwwwwwww!!!!! The imagery in your very vivid write is such that a nurse feels as though she's back working on the lovely wounds of various patients. LOL
Well done, almost TOO well done! LOL :)