abuse · dreams · life · poetry · recovery


Sticks and stones may be inert
at causing pain, but names catch,
travel, complicate the defenceless,
incubate, invite curiosity, remain.

So much dirt involved in building
dreams, to stretch imaginations,
span across crevices of despair,
progress threatened by storms,

emotional waters turning hope
to mud, supports lost at crucial
intervals, silenced by the depth
of loss, crashing in the slime.

What was precious, now lost,
enveloped in layers of excess
compulsion to claw apart vile
skin, tear away the grossness.

Yet, all is not lost, a garden
grows best when planted
in soil, watered, as long as
the sun is allowed to shine.

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