Self Inflicted

I turn my hand out
and see it ablaze.
I know that I never
will be the same.
What have I done?
My tounge spits out
reactions that rise
up as dark clouds.
I find I am so lost,
in a cold damp place
that threatens me;
it shows on my face.
I want to write a
tune for you to see
hope is gone and
nightmares sting.
But the earth may
explode tomorrow
so I try to not live in
wallowing sorrow.
Sight of my words
allows me to decipher
what I need to keep
and what all is ire.
I must heal wounds
that fester upon flesh.
That are self-inflicted
and hurt me to death.

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