Bleeding Wounds

It occurs to me, when driving along yellow-lit streets away from home: We’ve all fought helpless battles, we all have bleeding wounds. And I can see it in your eyes that you’re wounded and fear for your life. Bobby Jorgenson not treating for shock; you feel you’re bleeding out but you walk with swagger and laugh at jokes that make you mad and make you feel broke. I see the pain you think you hide; you walk in rain and decline rides. “I’m here for you” words I can’t say from fear of ridicule and what you’ll say. I look at you just like looking in a mirror, it’s a screaming must: “Please know I’m here!”