Beyond the Hurt

Hurt is the dent scratched skin produces If peeled not prevents a new peep. Its depth depends on the object used And the flag waved ere the body feel. Beneath every thorn lie its sincere roots Held firmly by the earth in the heart’s hood Nurtured by the disappointments manured in It pricks at the exact moment of maturity. Since humans are elements of impulse, We react to the prick rather the plea: The muted whisper of I am not happy. We try to pick the pieces of pride up. Once we learn to peak under the hurt We would find its timid true cause And the greatest truth in all is read: Beyond the hurt is a voice crying help.