On What Is #6

This poem is one I want to judge for being too melodramatic and emo, however, when I had finished writing it, I LITERALLY felt my body change. Every old wound, every screaming cell, every scar dissolved into pure heat and just ran down my spine and out through my feet into the floor.

A hundred thousand scars cover this body. A hundred thousand defeats in a world where a single defeat merits death. And I am still alive--if barely. A hundred thousand taut cords and wires bind this body to the grave.

A hundred thousand old wounds cry out to be reopened by the relentless knife of circumstance. Calling in more and more sin, more and more defeat, more and more death upon me.

The universe produces all that is requested and piles it on so high, so wide, so deep that a thousand friends could not lift the burden from me.

Yet one Friend can.

One grain of faith smaller than a mustard seed takes down every opposition, heals every wound.