Day: November 8, 25

Scar tissue 

~ DC ~ Leave a comment

Scar Tissue


I wait beneath the weight of hollow years,


the silence burns a prayer into my chest.


Your shadow quivers where the light appears,


I ache in faith, though faith is put to test.


I trace the echo of your turning face,


each time you flee, I find no ground to stand.


The past still hums—a ghost I can’t erase,


a trembling heart still reaching out a hand.


You hide behind your walls of hardened glass,


pretending you were never made to need.


While I am caught in memories that pass,


their thorns still teaching me how hearts can bleed.


The nights collapse with whispers of your name,


and hope becomes both comfort and disease.


I’ve learned that healing doesn’t mean the same


as finding peace—it asks a harder peace.


I see the child in you that never spoke,


the small defense that shields you from my care.


The boy in me still breathes beneath the smoke,


unlearning how to vanish into air.


If grace is measured by the ones who stay,


then mine was forged in storms I could not leave.


I pray the wind will bend your ribs someday,


and teach you how the broken still believe.


Because this bond was never born of choice,


but tethered in the hunger of the scar.


I hear redemption trembling in your voice,


but silence always tells me where we are.


You fear that love will drown you where you stand,


while I fear losing what was never mine.


Each moment drips like blood between my hands,


as faith and grief braid tight around the spine.


I’ve watched your eyes turn distant, cold with doubt,


but underneath I feel the buried prayer.


There is no healing if we cast it out,


so I remain, though absence fills the air.


I can’t repair the child who hides in you,


but I can hold the ache without demand.


If miracles are what the broken do,


I’ll wait for God to place them in your hand.


This scar—our mirror—shines where pain had fed,


reminding me that loss can still renew.


And even if the path is lined with dread,


I’ll walk it still, until it leads to you.

RSP

…

DCG

However, it may lead I will always find my faith

~ DC ~ Leave a comment

I know you’re feeling angry

I know your feeling resigned

The coping strategy you use

A pain free solution you will never find

My heart breaks every time I see

The struggle you will not address

It’s from a trauma in childhood

Not any evil demon that you possess

You are held captive

In a prison of your own mind

You are both the prisoner and the jailer

That will punish you every single time

I’ve done the research, I’ve learned my boundaries

But for you, I will not give up, I will not fail

With knowledge there is responsibility

This commitment to heal will not stale

When others have given up

When you found yourself betrayed

Your family members were scattered

And now you drift alone afraid

I understand your shame and fear

A secure attachment of somebody like me

I understand you’re avoidant tendencies

This is something I can clearly see 

In my initial anxious attachment

I have grown into one that is secure

This trauma bond, I now understand

With self reflection and counseling, there is a cure

I walk a precarious edge of a razor

Knowing my empathy couples with self sacrifice

I tread upon this boundary

Knowing full well, what is the emotional cost and price

You may ask me why the emotional fortitude

In my experience of abandonment and shame, I find the grace

However, it may lead

I will always find my faith

RSP

…

DCG

https://youtube.com/shorts/LRI2CpeR8w4?si=yckUu-wFOGqzgPtV

An existential John boy Walton 

~ DC ~ Leave a comment

An Existential John Boy Walton


He sat by the flicker of thought’s old flame,


Naming the unknown, though knowing no name.


The stars in his attic were lanterns of lore,


Yet the silence beneath burned deeper at the core.


He wrestled with meaning the way one breathes air,


Invisible, endless, and heavy with care.


The ink on his fingers was both sin and prayer,


Each word was a wound he was willing to bear.


He had written of shadows pretending to see,


Of angels of mind and devils that flee.


He traced the dimension where reason can slip,


And poured his confusion from life to his lip.


The mirror was kinder before he had read,


The gospels of neurons that spoke to the dead.


He knew that the cortex could conjure despair,


Yet the soul still insisted there was someone there.


He whispered of gods who were born in the brain,


Of spirit reduced to electric domain.


Still, in his chambers, the silence replied,


That truth without mystery is half‑alive.


He built an altar of paradox sand,
The tide of his logic erased what he planned.


For every equation he found in the mist,


He uncovered a yearning that couldn’t resist.


Through psychology’s window, he saw his own face,


Half saint, half child, half out of place.


Attachment and terror were parents entwined,


In the labyrinth heart of the questioning mind.


He prayed to the pulse at the base of his skull,


To grant him a moment where thought becomes full.


He envied the sparrow, content to be real,


While his intellect carved what his soul couldn’t heal.


He wrote of surrender in rational tones,


Of crucified logic and animated stones.


His faith was not blinded, nor purely devout,


It lived in the gaps where certainty runs out.


He met his own shadow in scripture and sin,


Talking to silence, with truth wearing thin.


But just as despair took root in the clay,


A quiet illumination showed him a way.


He saw that the fracture was how we begin,


A cosmos within us, both chaos and kin.


The answer, he realized, was never a line,


But the movement between the profane and divine.


At dawn, with his questions uncoiled and bare,


He breathed through the echoes suspended in air.


He smiled—not for victory, but for the fight,


For knowing that darkness, too, carries light.


He closed his worn journal, his thoughts running deep,


Knowing some truths must wake while others sleep.


And in that surrender, his name became gone,


But his words kept on living, still writing him on.

…

DCG