It Hurts

Pain is no respecter of person. It comes in many ways.

This pain is unfamiliar. It does not ache my flesh and bones, it does not. My heart and soul are in distress. It hurts. The fretting, the insomnia, the avenues and boulevards my mind has wandered when idle. This sort of solitude has brought about a tone of that which is brought on by an ominous sky before a storm. The tossing to and fro leaves a wreckage no man can salvage. It hurts. The ravishing of my most intimate thoughts, the tearing of my brain to shreds. I cannot pry out from the claws, I cannot fight away the gnashing teeth. I feel chained to a cold floor with nothing but two, tiny peepholes to see a glimpse of light, a subtle muse for my imagination and daydreaming. As I await the anguish of this reoccurring turmoil. It hurts.