Welcome to the Relics

There are poems that speak, and there are poems that stain. This page is for the latter. These are relics—fragments of commentary, emotional autopsy, and poetic confession. Read closely. You might find ash between the lines.

Exhibit 1

Some wounds don’t bleed—they echo. This was never meant to be a poem. It was meant to be a reckoning. Stigmata of a Poet is both a confession and a confrontation: with the sacred, with self, and with the weight of being perceived.

Every line here opens like a ribcage. It names wat most of us only flinch at. It doesn’t ask for salvation—it bleeds for it.

This relic marks the first offering in this special archive. Not because it’s the most elegant, but because it is the most honest.

Come close…but don’t expect to leave unmarked.

  • Relic Reflection: Stigmata of a Poet

    by M. Allshouse

    This poem wasn’t born from a single wound—but from the slow inheritance of many. I grew up surrounded by scripture, shaped by it, bruised by it, and eventually—driven to reclaim it. Stigmata of a Poet began as an exploration of that reclamation: taking familiar stories, stories etched deep into collective memory, and reshaping them to carry the weight of grief, of trauma, of generational ache. I wanted to speak in a language that so many of us were raised to revere—but to speak from the cracks it left in us.

    I chose the word “stigmata” with intention. For me, it symbolizes fate that clings. Not a choice, but a mark—a burden and a blessing etched into the soul. Creative souls don’t always choose their calling; they carry it, often painfully. Feeling deeply is both a gift and a curse. And when you can express those feelings in ways that reach others—that’s where the sacred work begins.

    I didn’t fully understand the cost of that work until I began building my platforms. With every poem that resonated, that drew messages of “I needed this,” came the risk of being misunderstood, ridiculed, diminished. But I’ve come to believe that ridicule often speaks more about the reader’s fear than the writer’s failure. I refuse to write within the safety of a box. Humanity doesn’t live censored, and neither should poetry.

    Still, praise can be a strange thing—especially when it’s offered for your pain. I’m not interested in hollow compliments. I don’t want to be called eloquent; I want to be understood. I want what I write to land in someone’s soul, not just their feed. And when it does, it’s not a spotlight—it’s a balm.

    This piece isn’t for everyone. But it is for someone. Someone who’s been aching for language that speaks to their root. Someone who has lived deeply and questioned the hand they were dealt. Someone who has been told their emotions were too much—or never given room to feel them at all.

    What they carry away from this poem isn’t mine to decide. That’s the beauty of releasing art into the world. Some will find liberation in it. Others, validation. Some will write scripture of their own. Some will simply feel less alone. Whatever it becomes for them—it’s enough.

    This is not a call for applause. This is a burial. A crucifixion. And a quiet resurrection—for anyone who needs it.

  • “Stigmata of a Poet” 

    By M. Allshouse

    Stigmata of a poet—

    Marks no man can see.

    They chart the path I’ve walked:

    A gift bestowed divinely,

    A curse questioned endlessly.

    The world kissed me like Judas:

    A betrayal before I understood the cost.

    In Gethsemane, I wept unarmed—

    Condemned before I ever sinned.

    A poet of human experience—my trial.

    Kept alive only to be mocked and ridiculed.

    Barabbas finds sanctuary,

    But I am left forsaken.

    Sentenced since birth

    To bear the burden of emotion

    I was never prepared to hold.

    Each moment of anguish—

    A metaphorical flogging.

    Forced to wear happiness like a robe,

    Contentment like a crown of thorns.

    Stigmata of a poet

    Is to bear the cross.

    To understand love and humility,

    Yet be forced to carry them—

    Solitary.

    Undone.

    My poems are my Golgotha—

    Words nailed to a cross for all to see.

    They are my deepest sacrifice

    As I lament in such grief:

    “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

    Stigmata of a poet

    Is three hours of darkness—

    The most sacred parts of me

    Thrust before an audience of my unraveling.

    They feed me praise laced with gall,

    But I refuse—

    The why was never for applause.

    I lay my psyche in ink—

    For the masses to read and misunderstand.

    I am no messiah of a promised land;

    I gather the gospel of where I began.

    Our roots, though winding,

    Have all been the same.

    But I am the one

    Destined to shoulder the blame.

    So as I offer myself in martyrdom

    To try and unbind your mind,

    Let the temple veil be torn.

    Pierce me with your spear.

    I offer salvation—

    But you refused the divine.

    Stigmata of a poet—

    I do not bleed blood and water.

    No—

    This is all I am.

    Every last part of me

    Hung on this cross.

    I do not seek fans.

    I need kindred eyes

    To witness the burial

    And see clarity through my eyes.

    Who look on as I’m wrapped in a shroud—

    Come, strike the stone,

    And mourn not me,

    But the part of you I held.

    You’ve found

    A voice that’s known your ache

    Since the womb.

    Stigmata of a poet,

    Bestowed upon you from the tomb.