Something many lack understanding of.
The oh so childish cry, harmonized with deluded eyes.
The improvised frown, performed like a maniacal act in pursuit of attention.
Yet the only wound suffered is but a shallow cut that yields no blood.
And still, the unwavering cries haunt the ears of those who dare know what true pain is.
So then, what is true pain?
What other thing could it be, than Hell?
It beckons those who've been there before,
this foreboding fog of perdition.
The malevolent entity baptized as darkness,
eclipsing all hope, disproving all future belief of potential bliss,
consuming what shred of humanity has been left.
Silent screams reverberate inside the walls of this hollow chest,
as the thickening blood pools from this wound, so deep.
A wound, fatal, unlike that of a petty scratch.
Such a rudimentary diagnosis of pain is held by most.
To the one who wails at the scratch,
you know nothing of pain.