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Cameron Anderson #166210
10/19/2022

Hurt

I literally received my name through blood and sweat
Yet, my continuous actions from that point on, cause my name to remain.
The bed of my nails have been torn ragged, from scrapping/clawing my way through life.
The outermost layer of my body has been scrubbed raw.
And the friction from my slow crawl of a progress has exposed the nerves of my flesh to any it may interest.
I need someone to touch me, but the pain is too unbearable to endure.
Still I proceed.
My screams of outrage and anguish go unheard, they remain on the inside.
It seems I’ve unintentionally taught myself to cry in reverse.
So the tears I shed are never seen by outsiders.
Who do I turn toward?
How do I turn toward individuals, who are individually looking for somewhere to turn?
It seems that to hold onto hope is pointless.
Hope has become a procrastinated letdown and there’s nowhere further to let me.
My name is no mere alias.
It’s a testament toward the life I’ve lived.
A one word description of what most would fall short of describing.
Inadequate in its simplicity.
HURT. A description of my experiences.
Humbling.
Volatile.
Wretched.
Trying.
A description of myself.
Honorable.
Versatile.
Righteous.
Tactful.
The scars that coat my temple are like Braille.
And the story is a horrific masterpiece of enlightenment.
Yet, just as you’ve looked at Braille and misunderstood it,
You could never understand (I) without taking the time to learn about me.
I AM! HURT!

 

 

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