It was a beautiful kind of pain


“A beautiful kind of pain”
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He wore a wig of solitude and


away and

an angel whispered, “it’s a beautiful kind of pain”

she couldn’t see it

she wouldn’t see it

she didn’t see it

she had

willing placed shackles upon her heart and feet

“Damn this pain and this blood soaked madness!” She exclaimed in sheer terror of the level of pain

in which she was in

mall she could do was paint


drown out the words he’d say


names he called her

and how he shamed her

into hiding her Nuyorican accent and her

curly hair

she painted so much

she almost ran out of paint and

one day she she stopped crying

And one day she felt good

and happy


And in the midst of laughter with good friends

mover vodka and cigarettes

she said and smiled, in perfect peace,

“it was a beautiful kind of pain

it turned my black heart

to the colors of my paints

turned my tears

into paintbrushes and

placed words in my heart of poems never written

it was a beautiful kind of pain, the

evolving kind of pain

the growing kind of pain

the giving birth Kind of pain

and I can say now

that I learned to love

as an adult

that I know what love can be at my age

and I know what love is not

and so maybe this is the definition of happy:

this me, here with paintbrushes in hand

and this me, cooking for the ones I love

this me, at peace

it was a beautiful kind of pain and I

pity him

for his

wig of solitude.

What a sad and pathetic life to lead-

to refuse the love from another.”


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