ManicWorld Magazine

Once I was a manic rage-fueled lifter.
I dug out bilious poisons deep within.
When flesh ripped from my hands, bloodied, blistered;
I could not halt ‘til paid my weight in skin.
The music that I played dripped with rancor.
My every move, fraught with bestial stealth.
I did not know that violence anchors
sickness; robs both bones and soul of fair health. 
Once vanquished all the anger; I’m restored.
My anima; a deep pacific place.                                        
The weights a welcome friend, an open door
doth lead me to a stronger, calmer face.
Weights and I made war, thought it heroic,
 Whence I squat, and hoist again, a stoic.