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First To Die

“Doc, over here.” I heard them cry.
I raced on black volcanic sand,
bullets nipping at my heels,
my medic-aid kit in my hand.

“Its Mike Strank, they got him bad.”
Mike was down, writhing in pain.
He was losing blood
and awfully pale.

Shielding his body with my own,
in a depression in the ground
I cut away his Khaki shirt.
Until the entry wound was found.

A sucking wound, an evil sign-
red frothing bubbles from his chest.
A styrette of Morphine- all I had
to ease the pain of every breathe.

Suribachi loomed above us.
Barely had a week gone by
since this man had helped to raise
the Stars and stripes up to the sky.

Now he was dying, fading fast.
A grave awaited, far from home.
There was nothing I could do
except not let him die alone.

poem by John F. McCullagh
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Tassie's Pain

Blood everywhere, watching it trickle down my hand;
My heart beating faster:

Pain is love...
Pain is feeling, feeling of hurt coursing through my body
Captivating me... invigorating in its own sense;

Pain is lovely...
Love is pain and pain is love but its pain to my body and my body is my temple,
And its bleeding from the inside...
Cutting it felt like an escape but it was doing the opposite,
Kind of like locking myself out and throwing away the key

Pain is adrenaline,
That never ending rush that never satisfy
But where does pain come from?
Why does it never end? Will it never end?

Pain is amazing,
It's like rotten grapes, but isn't that what wine really is? They say that's good for me, pain must be good too,
So I am shivering, head down in the sink,
A razor in my sights, with my hand shaking like its got Parkinson's
Cut....
Painfully sweet...

Pain is home
A home I built on the sand
Sand that is being blown away by my cries of hurt
Home is where my heart is
Meaning my pain is pumping hurt throughout my body

Razor still in hand, with the blood is draining down the sink
I raise it higher; thinking one slice of the jugular will end it all
The continuous pain
Cut....
I survived

poem by Lusekelo Simwela
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Lazarus Heart

He looked beneath his shirt today
There was a wound in his flesh so deep and wide
From the wound a lovely flower grew
From somewhere deep inside
He turned around to face his mother
To show her the wound in his breast that burned like a brand
But the sword that cut him open
Was the sword in his mothers hand
Every day another miracle
Only death will tear us apart
To sacrifice a life for yours
Id be the blood of the lazarus heart
The blood of the lazarus heart
Though the sword was his protection
The wound itself would give him power
The power to remake himself at the time of his darkest hour
She said the wound would give him courage and pain
The kind of pain that you cant hide
From the wound a lovely flower grew
From somewhere deep inside
Every day another miracle
Only death will keep us apart
To sacrifice a life for yours
Id be the blood of the lazarus heart
The blood of the lazarus heart
Birds on the roof of my mothers house
Ive no stones that chase them away
Birds on the roof of my mothers house
Will sit on my roof some day
They fly at the window, they fly at the door
Where does she get the strength to fight them anymore
She counts all her children as a shield against the pain
Lifts her eyes to the sky like a flower in the rain
Every day another miracle
Only death will keep us apart
To sacrifice a life for yours
Id be the blood of the lazarus heart
The blood of the lazarus heart

song performed by by Sting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Constant Pain

You don't know what it's like to have Pain, every time you take a
breath or even breathe.
You don't know what it's like to have to hold your breathe each time the
bus turns a curve
You don't know what it's like when you're standing and you have to move
but you don't want to because you will be in Pain
You don't know what it's like to get up and know that you are going to be
in Pain most of the day
You don't know what it's like for your heart to beat fast as if you just
ran a mile even though you only walked a few feet
You don't know what it's like to be in never ending Pain
You don't know what it's like to sit and in be in Pain
You don't know what it's like to not want to walk because with each step
it will make your hip hurt
You don't know what it's like to sit on your bed and wait for your heart
to beat normally
You don't know what it's like to have Pain in your arm that is writing
this
You don't know what it's like to wait for the Pain to stop
You don't know that it's like to see your hand move because something
inside your chest is beating way above normal
You just don't know what it's like
You don't know what it's like to not want to sleep
You don't know what it's like to experience Pain every time your back his
straight
You don't know what it's like to have my Pain
You will never know what it's like to have my Pain
You will never know and you will never try
My Pain is my Pain, no one else's
It is my burden to bear. I bear it alone. I will bear it alone till I
change my mind
It's not anytime soon. I'm sorry.
You don't know what it like for something to bleed on your hand when you
don't know how you got it to bleed
You don't know what it's like to not want to take a deep breathe because
if you do, you will just be in Pain and sometimes, you just can't help it

poem by Matthew Bresette
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Still 10 Years Of Faith

My son no longer walks but this is not the end,
cause we have a friend in Jesus and this we can depend. Mike you are so special and so close to my heart,
Im thankful to our lord your here and for our Brand new start. I've cried an awful lot Mike just like you say I do,
But their only tears of Joy son because I still have you. My son Mike that I remember just ran all around,
not once to even notice his pants were falling down. We didn't have new things son we always had the old,
But we had a full stomach and we were out of the cold. Your no longer a boy Mike your this wonderful man,
10 years in a wheel chair and you faith still with stands. Im not feeling well either your their when Im in pain,
I don't have to holler Mike I just call out your name. You wheel right there for me son and I listen as you pray,
and you stay rite there beside me till my pain just goes away. I loved you as my little boy and now my grown up man,
I can explain things better now because you understand. I love you as my grown up man yet miss that little son,
Who used to let his pants hang down if even just for fun.
.p.s. my son Mike is my pleasure.

poem by Eva Fernandez
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Love Seat

Over sized chair of dusty plum,
forcing my body into fetal pose.
Color the perfect shade of pain and depression,
you beckon me.
You’re velvety arms encase me,
as my body sinks into you’re warm embrace.
Sucking the blood red of pain &
the cold midnight blue of depression from me
into you’re fabric.
I sink into you’re warm softness
Free to dream peaceful dreams.

poem by Karen Thornburg
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A Wound On His Forehead

he scratched it accidentally
perhaps when he was asleep
as he was wont
to raise his arms on his forehead,

and with uncut nails
he caused a wound therein
infected by his carelessness
his hand touching
barely almost anything dirty

he looks at himself on the mirror
studying
the gaping wound like an
eye staring back at him
asking

why should a man raise his hands
even when asleep?

and why should he wound himself
unnecessarily?

why does he not care about
the possibility of the complexity of an infection
that may even
cause his death?

is this the kind of surrender
he had dreamed of inside his dream?

his way of finally giving up life
since it left him with nothing to offer?

he looks at himself closely
now, he becomes a strange man staring at
another man he thought
he knew too well.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Pain runs through my body

Pain runs through my body, and I don't need anymore.
Pain runs through my body, so leave me alone you whore.
Pain runs through my blood, as I start to bleed.
Pain runs through my body, and love is what I need.
Pain runs through my body, everyday of my life.
Pain runs through my body, as I pick up the knife.
Pain runs through my body, as I put it through my chest.
Pain runs through my body and I think you know the rest.

poem by Ari Castillo
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A dying soldier

When he closes his eyes
a helicopter hangs chattering
in the sky
and I feel his pulse beat fading
while I try to press close
the shooting wound
from which the red is oozing

and his face
is deadly silent and pale
his eyes flicker open
perplexed, with pain
and something unknown to me in them,
they become taught
and the lines of his mouth are set in stone
while his breathing goes silent

There is sand swarming up
while the flying machine is landing
and through that wind
I smell his blood.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Broken Vase

The vase where this verbena is dying
was cracked by a blow from a fan.
It must have barely brushed it,
for it made no sound.

But the slight wound,
biting into the crystal day by day,
surely, invisibly crept
slowly all around it.

The clear water leaked out drop by drop.
The flowers' sap was exhausted.
Still no one suspected anything.
Don't touch! It's broken.

Thus often does the hand we love,
barely touching the heart, wound it.
Then the heart cracks by itself
and the flower of its love dies.

Still intact in the eyes of the world,
it feels its wound, narrow and deep,
grow and softly cry.
It's broken. Don't touch!

poem by Rene Francois Armand Prudhomme
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The Blood Red Poem

Red is the color of Evil
Evil feels like fire burning on your hands
Red sounds like fresh Misery in the air
Misery is like suffering
Red taste like a fresh wound of blood
A vampire made that wound
Red smells like dozin of roses
Roses sitting by a grave

poem by Jacalyn Lopez
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Flesh Wound

Its four o clock in the mornin and the daylights creepin in
Im lyin awake in bed
Outside my window the rains just pourin down
And theres a pain inside my head
I looked hard into the mirror, took some water in my hands
And threw it on my face
But your memory wont fade away, I can see you everywhere
Around this empty space
This nights too long, Im fadin fast
I tell myself, this pain wont last
Its just a flesh wound
Missin my heart but it still cuts deep
Nothin but a flesh wound
It tore me apart and I still cant sleep
You know you really did it well
Now Im lyin on a bed of nails
But its nothin but a flesh wound
Better pull myself together, gotta hold my head up high
Thats what i;ve got to do
No damage done, but deep inside my heart
Who am I tryin to fool
Its over now, all in the past
I tell myself, this pain wont last
Its just a flesh wound
Missin, my heart, but it still cuts deep
Nothin but a flesh wound
It tore me apart and I still cant sleep
Ive got no choice, I must be strong
Cant lie here thinkin about it all night long
Its nothin but a flesh wound
(repeat chorus....)

song performed by by Foreigner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Crazy Little Stalker Named Mike

This stalker named Mike he just can't handle it
This stalker named Mike he just can't get over it
He's so loco
Crazy little stalker named Mike

This stalker named Mike (named Mike)
He cries (Like a baby)
In a cradle all night
He screams (whoo hoo)
He moans
He shakes all over like a lunatic
I once kinda loved him
Now I more then kinda hate him
Wish that I could just get rid of him
Crazy little stalker named Mike

There goes his mind
He's losing his grip on reality that's for sure
He drives me crazy
He gives my computer viruses and so much damn spyware
Then he cries when I won't take him back
Breaking out in cool cool sweat
Wondering how he next try to get my attention

Boy needs to learn how to be cool, relax, get off my back
Hit the road Mike
Hitch-hike
And maybe take a fatal ride on the back of a psycho's motorbike
Just leave me the hell alone
Crazy little stalker named Mike

poem by Ramona Thompson
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The Tally

Blood speckles the earthen ground,
Men sacrifice their life, their mind, their everything.
A fading memory, a shimmering sound.

The face of life wears a frown,
For life is flying on broken wings,
As blood speckles the earthen ground.

Family photos lay strewn to later be found,
Among the anguished souls, still longing, searching,
For a fading memory, a shimmering sound.

Functions cease and pumps break down,
Adrenaline lies dormant, still waiting,
As blood speckles the earthen ground.

Thoughts float by under limits and bounds,
The calls and prayers soothing,
The fading memory, the shimmering sound.

The effort of many, of whose spirits are wound,
Tightly on strings pulled taut by forces of reckoning,
As blood speckles the earthen ground,
For a fading memory, a shimmering sound.

poem by Samuel Hall
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Have You Ever Felt Pain?

To know what pain is hurts the most
pain is not just a wound in your flesh
pain is a dagger in your heart

To know what pain is hurts the most
pain is a lover slipping away from you
you keep on watching until there is nothing left to do

Pain is a friend who stabed your back
through your flesh into ur heart
and slowly you'll fall part by part

Pain is not just a wound in your flesh
Pain is a dagger in your heart...

poem by Wriju Adhikary
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What Evil Is

Evil waits,
As silent as nothing,
Held in a frail wooden cage,
Waiting to be unleashed.

Evil is a shadow,
Dark and foreboding.
An anger,
Following in our footsteps.

Evil is a wound,
Raw and bleeding.
A deep cut,
Walking hand in hand with pain.

Evil is a blazing flame,
Burning and consuming.
A flicker of destruction,
Unpredictable.

Evil is a cracked image,
The reflection in a smashed mirror.
A twisted reflection,
Of ourselves.

poem by Jez Wong
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The Pain Is Just To Real

The pain is just to real.
There’s a tear somewhere deep within me.
Pulling at me, reaching up, seizing me.
The pain is just to real.
It bursts white hot scorching my insides.
Prying me open, ripping inside me.
The pain is just to real.
Needles hitting over and over again.
A cry of fear burst through my mouth.
The pain is just to real.
I hear the thud each time the pain comes.
It’s excruciating, I can’t take this much longer.
The pain is just to real.
I clutch my chest I can’t seem to breathe.
It’s killing me.
The pain is just to real.
Something’s shattering inside me.
It’s hitting every piece of flesh within me.
The pain is just to real.
White hot pain explodes in my chest.
Thud, Thud, pain pulses through my veins.
The pain is just to real.
My muscles begin to twitch.
Clutching my chest I think I see lights.
The pain is just to real.
My vision goes blurry.
I’m coming short of breath.
The pain is just to real.
With one gasping breathe I realize what’s happening.
My heart is shattering..

poem by Krystal Allison
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Death of a Vampire

She sits there. Eyes blank, lifeless. Blood pours from her eyes, her mouth, and the wound in her chest. They tried to stake her, to kill her. She had done nothing wrong, but just living was a crime her race. Her race lived off blood, other's blood, evil assumed they did of her. She never did killed anyone. Now she sits, awaiting her death. The pain dulls as the minutes roll by. She felt so hated, so unwanted. It was unbearable, painful. And as she slowly closes her eyes, she dreams of a time she was loved and she thinks to herself, ' And now I die alone.'

poem by Suzaku Vaneko
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Unrequited Love, Lovelessness, Broken Heart, Hopelessness

there is no wound that you can see
by all means you will see no visible injury

in this place the people that you meet smile at you
and they will say

' he's doing well and taking
more fortunes and luck and prosperity'

but there is a pain that only your heart feels
that which their eyes cannot see
that which their hands cannot feel
that which their ears never hear

there is this pain
without an open wound

there is no blood dripping
but there is pain throbbing

there is no bruise
no inflammation
but there is this pus aplenty
boiling inside but
without a possible exit

there is this voice hidden
inside you
screaming

there is this threat of a
sudden eruption
at any moment

there is someone inside you praying
that now it must perish

degenerate and then
altogether die and
disappear forever

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My Ache

My aching head is numb now from the pain,
The wound of blood and brain, a creature.
Nature is triumphant on my bed,
Underneath this object is a utility.
Cushions and pillows and sheets are spent,
All for the sake of the one in the bed.
It is like a bed of roses, or a bedroom of plants,
Ones that linger with their smell,
And dreams never die, the dreams are not dying.
My aching head, my poor head, it lies on the bed
With a sore wound that no one can reset.

poem by Naveed Akram
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Melancholy Of Jason Kleander, Poet In Kommagini, A.D. 595

The aging of my body and my beauty
is a wound from a merciless knife.
I’m not resigned to it at all.
I turn to you, Art of Poetry,
because you have a kind of knowledge about drugs:
attempts to numb the pain, in Imagination and Language.

It is wound from a merciless knife.
Bring your drugs, Art of Poetry—
they numb the wound at least for a little while.

poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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