An Abstract Illusion

by John Peters Axley Award Finalist

Traversing the page— my pen implores expressions, but fuzz flows superficial, images refuse to surge. Who easily writes wounded words— years of neglect by family?

Precious words—three—never spoken, are you able to comprehend being loveless? Comfort rare in punishment’s field —where beatings raise welts and tears water weeds— feeds my fancy to run away. Dying from affection’s drought— shifting sands swallow my sum. Words saunter—beseech candor— to convey the story’s impotent anger toward those guilty of stealing my youth for hell’s perdition.

No survival, my ego died God’s death— aborted superman— my potential perished. My voices scream hate— despise them and the world. I grasp the valve-holding vitriol, but I can’t loosen my fear.

I’m breed coward, my voice silent. I wield the golden pen— weathers under pressure— over space where scars bleed resolute words. I chase the right map of stars, where I reveal truth— find self-esteem, learn self-love.