 
I Wish I Had More Scars
I wish I had more scars,
Like twisted rose stems without buds.
Life could lay them at my feet,
And on my elbows and arms,
A tribute to me.
I wish I had more scars,
So that I would have more stories to tell.
I don’t have many.
When I look at myself, I see
Soft,
Blank skin
Like the pages in the back of the books
Where no one writes,
Where there are no tales told.
There is no story there,
No past, no lines.
Those pages are unnumbered and unread.
I had one, once, on my hand –
I forget if it was on my finger
Or on my thumb
I cut myself with a fingernail,
On accident,
On stage.
I didn’t even notice the blood;
I Wish I Had More Scarsin Writing
Fifty-Five: Yesterday
Hot rocks, dressed like a soldier, lost. This was all he knew. And though he needed all the fluids he could get, he had to piss. Useless. He drained himself, but nothing grew there. That was yesterday. Today, he threw his canteen, sat in the dirt, said, “Shoulda held it,” pulled his pistol, fell down. Fifty-Five: Yesterdayin Writing
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Sta.sh
