The world goes whispering to its own, "This anguish pierces to the bone;" And tender friends go sighing round, "What love can ever cure this wound?"
My days go on, my days go on ~ Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Living Hurt, is much like existing voiceless in a plastic bubble w/ no breathing room.
There is no space to grow...nowhere to go...no promise of freedom, from the cruel memories carelessly inflicted upon a once trusting, but now forsaken soul.
A gaze weeping w/out tears, from w/in a broken world that consists solely of sharp edges and jagged points of mind searing reference...
A heavy heart surrounded by blind onlookers that have either already hurt you or just haven't hurt you, yet.
Every thing detected by the lamenting senses are but raw cuts, deepening the wide gaping hole in a soul from which all sound reason for hope...joy...and honest laughter, are lost...
Drained w/in each suffocating moment of a haunted life, now burdened w/ the curse of too much time