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.
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