The Pin

author’s note:

A long poem.  But I tried to be concise.


THE PIN

Early on, I was pushed
to put a pin in my heart
by those who believed
hearts should be pinned

and I obeyed--hoping
they’d then stop pushing.

Well, at first, I was able to ignore the pin.
But as the world continued to push me around
I began to wake and as I woke
I began to feel the pin stabbing my heart--
a stab with every step:

usually just the pin’s point
but

sometimes, that tippy tip tore a sore.

And as I continued to wake
I woke to the people passing--
I saw so many wincing in pain
just as I was:

good to know what people feel
but
I didn’t know how to help them--

I could hardly help myself.

In the distress of this confusion
and the burden of seeing and feeling
so much pain
I grew tired
and sought refuge in a winter’s cave.

But as I kindled myself
in the cold dark
I could feel the pin burn
even more intensely
in my heart.

So I pulled at it
with all my focused might.

And yet
I still couldn’t pry that spike loose

but continued because
to work felt better
than to rest in defeat

and I saw no greater challenge--
to succeed would be
a redeeming accomplishment.

I then realized I’d found
what I’d gone inside to find--
thus
I’d completed my stay in the cave

so I walked out
and around
and once again, saw people wincing--
I saw pain from heart pins
everywhere I went--

I felt that pain
and wanted to tell those folk
what I’d discovered underground
however
I knew I needed heal myself more
before I spoke--
I’d not yet earned the right.

Frustrated I was, but
I did find some comfort in this thought:
by trying to heal myself
(to the highest degree possible)
I would be doing at least a little
to heal the wound that began
at the birth of humankind

and furthermore:
if I opened my chest just a bit more
--a bit more--
some of the wounded in our wounded world
might notice me trembling
in the slow removal of the pin
and see their own struggle in mine
and know again:

despite the frustration of such tedious work
better we fight than lose hope--
what greater occupation
than to balm and bind
the wounds of this world?

  © 2020, Michael R. Patton
  Poet, Heal Thyself: poetry ebook