Master

By Naomi McPeters


I serve a creative hunger

A deep down gnawing at my spine wanting more

Than this present form

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Of language,

Fluid, yet formed

The shape of these words like music

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Trauma

Defies all our bones

Defies all our poems

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Memory

Will not fit

Inside of my bones

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I do not die for want of stillness.

The thought of being one with whatever it was

I was created for

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Is shattered

Melody mourns

In silence is formed

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Would it mean I was dying

Surrendering to nothingness instead of grasping

The certainty of chaos

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If it transformed into peace

This aching that won’t leave me alone

A hunger eating me alive

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Until inside, all that is left

Is bullet holes and star-gazing whores

Willing to give everything

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I just wanted more

More than the wailing of a mother for her child

This wasn’t the first time

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More than a heart’s cry

Piercing me to the core of my being until all I wanted

Was to absorb every ounce of her cry

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To hand her my heart’s jar

And let her overflow it with her tears

Until even I was drowning

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I would have rather it be me

I don’t want to reach the end 

Grasping for something I can never have again

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We all have to serve a master

I would starve without my hunger

Call it madness

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Call it a haunting cry

That won’t stop echoing through my mind

Memories of suffering

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Why do we keep

Coming back here

Repeating 

Repeating

Repeating

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I keep trying to hold

To the story

It has burned

And these ashes

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Drifting

Into the wind

All is vanity, meaningless

Says the Preacher

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Call those haunting eyes

Brimmed with indescribable sorrow pleading with us

To welcome life with a smile when it comes to us tomorrow

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The Preacher

He knew nothing of trauma

But plenty of crimson

Marked his pen as he wrote

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History

Within time lies

The story

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Call me sorrow

Call me a thorn that mars the rose’s crown

I’ve still got to make it to the end somehow

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Before it finds me 

Unprepared, fighting, screaming into the air 

Not saying that I wanted more

But saying it could take me

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Call me Mara

Bitter to the core of my being

Existence holds no meaning

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But Life

That is something much different

It too has got me wondering

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About the unspoken suffering

The deepest grieving marked by the sound

Of the deepest cry of love

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Places of memory

Lie forgotten

Unanswered

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Form

With no boundaries

Fluid and rigid

I’m trying to tell you the story

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Of pain

Of a child, eight years of age

Hammered beneath her mother’s rage

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If you listen

One can hear the cry in the deadness of night

Tormented, frozen up inside

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Until death sparks its fury,

Don’t speak to me of its meaning

All there is left to say is

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

I’m sorry.