Of My Bleeding Pen
My pen cannot much bleed.
My heart, though it may ache,
cannot a loud sound make.
I suffer – as do many others -
from nearly endless annoying conditions
for which I seek relief, but I can no more make
you feel my pain
than I can make you feel my smallest grief.
We live each in our own bubble-worlds,
understanding one another’s words,
but how can we really feel
another’s pain for REAL? Mere words do not suffice.
I think of those who suffer from mental illnesses
or others marooned on their own little islands of despair.
How can we ever make ourselves comprehend THEIR pain?
And with strangers, how easily can we care?
We live with trials, sometimes never knowing
why some burdens came to be our own.
People born with no arms or legs – a horrifying fate.
Sightless or worse – the brain so dead it never can create.
What good in bleeding one’s woes with a pen?
Somewhere in the world right now
people are bleeding far worse than you or I
again and again and again.
Imagine if we could really “feel” each other’s pain.
One's mind could not withstand the onslaught
of feeling everybody’s strife.
God made it this way; and thus is life.
And so we write or we tell our woes to friends.
I do not know why some suffer more than others.
I only know one day the suffering ends.
Until then, I keep on writing because I feel the need,
but the pen I use to write with hardly knows to bleed.
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