I am not going to crumple this pain up
to toss in my trashbag of undeserved attention,
I will carefully and patiently
open the brazen covers,
peel them page by page
like flesh, off old wounds,
to check for cold words
and release bad blood.
I will, with lithe fingers, trace the words
along the lines that bear its many scars.

I will not use it as
an excuse for flimsy outbursts
or bury it like seeds
bound for spitting seasons
or as fan or fuel
to rouse flames of fury.
I will tear it up to pieces
and slowly but steadily
feed it to the fire within,
to stir sleeping genius.

I will roll this pain up
and disjoint it from end to end
till it is a mass of burning jumble.
I will kill its embers
and, with love, smother
all that was left to smolder
till it becomes new ash,
glistening with the color of healing hearts,
fine and refined,
worthy and ready,
to anoint my head
as before the days of lent.

I will from my core, today
mine out this chunk I call, pain.
I will from my mind’s mine,
dig up its ore of misery.
I’ll feed it to the furnace
and melt the accompanying impurities
till it becomes golden drops
of raining peace
washing out this pain’s piss.

No matter the pain,
Speak up!
It will help with the shame.
Don’t give up.

by our guest writer Ojo Oluwagbenga

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