Hurt
By Paul B
Hurt. Cut down to the bone Insults like that Thrust into my psychic gut Spilling psychic blood to stain the floor. Awkward and foolish I feel And stupid and dumb And every other negative feeling You can make Churns up mud from my murky depth What good is love then? If it opens me to such emotion Dead I was before But insulated against such meaning Always safe and always sure Once you break my wall And crack the gentle core There is nothing to stop your rampage No way to repair Hurt Careless word. Written December 14th, 2001 © on Dec 14 2001 09:39 AM PST 18 • 0 • 1
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"Hurt...."