I Call Him Pain

By Scott Frink

PROMPT—No one noticed ...

Confused,

not amused,

playing show tunes

in blue jeans,

out of tune.

Can’t carry a note

or clap on beat,

but it doesn’t matter—

life runs on despair,

always there,

followed like a shadow.

A soul's cut in half,

lost in a battle

with self-doubt—

inner demons fighting it out.

Self-healing might mend it

someday, somehow.

But for now,

it stays that way

as the mind drifts,

like when sunny skies

fade to gray.

Similar, in that way—

searching for words

for what can’t be said,

stuck on why it feels this way.

Strangely,

feelings of self-hate

and delusions of grandeur

are easiest to speak,

like poetic words in a sonnet.

No difference between

being awake

or in a vivid dream—

touching reality from a distance,

disassociated,

confused.

A far-off tune,

a sparrow singing—

a melody of unease,

echoing soundless through the trees,

only to be heard here.

The song begins where it ends,

and it ends where it begins.

Everything is a lesson.

But here’s a confession:

I’m forever blessed with darkness

that hides within.

I call him Pain.

He lives in a cage,

tucked away

in this mind of unease.

He likes to peek and see

What he is doing to me.

He is happy

when I’m distraught.

These are his words.

These are his thoughts.

These are his lines—

I’m a scribe for Pain.

That’s a thought to ponder,

walking this winded forest path

with no way back,

destination not foreseen on any map.

Upon arrival,

a postcard is sent,

signed with a star:

Saying I made it this far.

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Scott Frink began writing as a means of survival, not publication. For years, he discarded each piece once it had served its purpose—expression, not preservation. It wasn’t until two years ago that he began saving his poems, recognizing that the voice that helped him endure might do the same for someone else. His work is instinctive, vulnerable, and emotionally unpolished. Though never praised in academic settings, Scott has watched his poetry move people deeply in therapeutic spaces. His writing exists to name pain, create connection, and remain honest. Scott writes from Ledyard, Connecticut.