I do write poetry, although I haven't recently. I was sorting my poems and others the family have written, today when I picked up one I had forgotten about. Its rather ugly but I think it works for this time.
The Scab (Pride)
Unplanned it slowly overcame the man.
The cut the wound the sore,
infection penetrating to the core,
and then a brown and dirty slab, the scab.
Not a scab to mark recovery, but disease;
the pus, the pain, the curse;
to remove the scab would reveal the worst.
the heart a solid sore, full up with pride and more.
Useless to tear away the covering.
Useless to open up the wound.
The outer part is by the inner part untuned,
The man his whole exterior covered over,
has built his house with nothing more.
The wound he cut himself with blinders on;
he let the pain engulf his very being,
and became the view that he was seeing.
His pride, his only helmet from the pain,
shut out a world he could no longer claim.
I know sadly, bad rhyming, and no redemption.
