Oil painting by Harald Calle
Have you ever been lost,
with no end in sight,
hurting beyond relief,
almost dead inside?
With people giving you strange looks,
for not being able to stand the sight,
of naked pain in your wide eyes,
of wanting it to just STOP!
That feeling of utter dread
of having to face another day,
of cheery, chirping birds,
who feel nothing for your loss.
Of wishing the Sun would go away
and the Moon would drown in the sea,
and to hell and beyond with it all,
and leave me the fuck alone!
Not found at all, by anyone,
except that one wet, mangy dog,
who smelled your desolation,
and didn’t seem to mind?
And then, after an eternity or two,
against all conceivable odds,
a tiny flame ignites again inside,
weak and trembling in the breeze.
Blown out again and lit anew,
until you can function, more or less,
but the hurt has become ingrained,
in every cell and in your marrow.
A twisted soul, like there are many,
and each other we do recognise,
for those scars of the spirit,
can never be seen to disappear.
The brotherhood of pain,
a fine club to be a member of,
but still a fraternity of sorts,
where one is not so lost no more.