Quotes about bruised, page 11
Three Nails And A Man
Glued on a lonely wood
Three nails and a man
Stood in a dimly lighted place
His bruised heart aching
He wears my crown again
the cross that you gave me
i will accept with all humility
soon, all my trials be over
for you will be with me
in my life's journey.
Thank you for the Cross, Lord
thank you for the price you paid for me.
Thank you Lord, for dying on the cross for me...forgive me...
poem by Meggie Gultiano
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Black Bruises IV
I can gorge the vile blackness,
the eviscerated acquiescence
like a dog-eats-dog carnival
I can endure the struggle
tasting blotted inks,
tasting cheap champagnes,
tasting one's molting skin,
tasting a chance to begin,
tasting cold greasy dishes,
tasting stark carnal sin,
tasting tar and nicotine,
tasting saline misery,
but am I the only one tasting
these black bruised savors?
poem by Norman Santos
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Watching Our Warts
Sloping down in gold pursuit
of a bruised city,
sons of nameless fathers
were changing the generic mandate.
I am becoming fluvial
going on a muted odyssey
to find unmarked graves.
Slaughtering
your own lines, in praise of end-
which came very soon;
before the windows altered the moon.
Genes spilled on the road
recalling the wounded
son whose lexicon took him
to war with the meanings.
poem by Satish Verma
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Broken Trust And Betrayal
betrayal of trust i let my heart and my soul to you someone who i thought was a true friend, how can you live with yourself knowing what you did.i learned a hard lesson that day the day the one the worst of my life everything out in the open i told u trust broken and bruised and gone. friends are supposed to listen and talk. not ever will i trust again its all gone never to return not ever again.
poem by Phyllisann Harvey
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Grave Situation
“The other reason I
Didn’t show up?
Well…”
His eyes turned in,
Towards his soul
“It’s something I
Cannot name”
“Welcome to the court
Of consequences! ”
Her retort was immediate
And bruised
They stared, stunned
By nebulous knowledge
Deep into each other
[...] Read more
poem by Rev. Rebecca Guile Hudson
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Too Much Like Alone....
holy infidels laying stone
for the pathway to the intimate...
stopping to smoke, a cup of coffee,
maybe a shot to break the chill...
books are only people
waiting to be set free from the shelf...
people are only spider's webs,
catching tiny fragments of light.
and this body a tired prayer,
spoken by lips both bruised and shaken.
my hand smells too much like alone,
but my feet know the way home!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Falling in snow on a frosty Evening
I’ve fallen and I bruised my rump.
I was out shoveling near the stump.
I was trying to get the driveway free.
A plow had just come by, you see.
I had a shovelful to toss
When suddenly, my footing lost,
I was sailing in the air
destined for the snow pile there.
I have bruises on both knees
My ribs are sore, it hurts to sneeze.
I think I should have stayed inside
And worst of all -It hurt my pride.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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The taker of Souls!
To the bitter end
My soul was dragged
dirty and bruised
I became insult
'd better bury
once my mortal
and write my epitaph
they took your soul!
they stole her pen!
I was not so
No voice, no hands
without singing and charm
then quieted my love
my words now
have no more life
became disgust and shame
wrecked, shattered hopes
[...] Read more
poem by Mirna Morgan
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I've got no words but you
a northern wind will bruise a flake
that spins around a barren bough
and looks for a nice place to melt
seeking my heart to hide in
the white dust moves to crack the soul
that leaked into the pools of dyes
and frozen lies in love with the ground
seeking my heart to hide in
and all the words I ever uttered
into the wells or into the clouds
are bruised like flakes in icy wind
seeking my heart to hide in
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Black Bruises III
I can wallow under the blackness,
the quietude underwater
coaxing to a surmised fray
I can endure the insipidness
sleuthing senescence arrive,
sleuthing balmy perfumes,
sleuthing cigarette kisses,
sleuthing ablaze kerosene,
sleuthing sly putrefactions,
sleuthing unawake buds,
sleuthing old handkerchiefs,
sleuthing ruffled pillowcases;
but am I the only one smelling
these black bruised fragrances?
poem by Norman Santos
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