Wasted Pain

Crops cannot survive without some rain, And neither can life exist without some pain. Death for many is a loss and not a gain. Yet, heaven continues to cry out for change, And that's not always easy to explain, Because sometimes, mortals have to be rearranged, And as the pain cries out, wrapped in a ball of chains, We are rendered with inabilities of ever being the same. So, what does it all mean when it hurts too bad to even scream as we are being ripped and torn apart at the seams, as our brains and hearts are racing at a full speed of Steam? What if pain waves and torturous signals are unable to track the source of misery where we have been severely and nearly hopelessly stained? How can we avoid wasting this pain? How can we somehow utilize lessons learned before it drives us insane? Why must we insist on simply assigning to it another name? How can I not succumb and hurt in vain? How can I stop this run-a-way train of pain? May I not Lose my bearing as I strain to maintain. I must find a way to apply Divine Novocain until only God's peaceful presence remains. Pain is an indicator, attention getter, an eye-opener. Pain need not be greeted or treated with disdain. Pain is not a sign that we are a person deranged. Pain is often misdiagnosed and given a false remedy. Pain is also a battle royal, a loyal friend, an unwelcome enemy. It is said that in the Balkan Mountains, roses are picked from one till two AM because 40% of the fragrance of roses disappear in the light of day. It is said the stars shine brightest in the long and dark winter nights. May this pain that refuses to cease or desist begin to germinate a fragrance in me. May this unwelcome pain that's wreaking havoc in every inch of my veins not be a cave of doom but a birthing place producing aromatic healing for all my wounds. 02142019FBPoSoup.PSCtest, Beatitude Rhyming Poem, Beata Agustin. 1P