Poetry: Within

Looking outward for solace,
It’s so much easier to understand,
Compared to the closest thing,
Right here within me, all numb.

A complex of unknown sorts,
Irony in the knowing and presence,
I would rather not see myself,
The refusal is a sweet, sweet vice.

These imperfections cut deep,
As they valiantly do, day by day.
But have I gone so deep,
That I have learned to accept?

How these scars are to grow,
Have become considered,
To let them be as fate takes them,
Or consider them professionally.

This is no longer of chance,
As that is fueled by the necessity.
But there is no necessity,
I have it in my hands to move.

And we are often vague,
And see others as often vague,
For clarity and the brighter picture,
Experiences that sting forever.

They all come back inward,
This bloody cycle an eternity.