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Pain?

What is pain?
Do we even know?
Have we spent one day
Inside a dying soul?
One hour
In the mind of the depressed?
One minute
With the utterly hopeless?

We think we know
What real pain is,
But truth be told,
We're just selfish,
Spoiled rotten, and discontent.
What about the years
That others have spent?

The years of torment,
Of agony; real pain.
Are we to sit back,
And watch in vain?

Their pain is not physical,
But deep, deep inside.
Pain, that when thought of,
Nearly comes to life.

It's desperate, hopeless,
Clinging pain.
It's not going to leave;
It's there to stay.
They've become accustomed
To this thing called pain.
All their hopes and dreams
Are slain.

So if you find yourself hurting,
Think, and you'll see,
That we don't know what pain is
To it's full capacity.





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