IT HURTS
It hurts, it hurts and sorely tortures me,
Whenever bitter truth, this message sends,
When we account for world’s inconsistency,
The list is headed by the names of friends.
Strangers have no power to create life
The island of privilege in plot,
They cannot hurt us deeply or placate
The deepest injuries of the heart.
To count them out of life is easy, but,
What pains us gravely, gets under the skin.
And what accounts to an unkindest cut
Is torment gifted by our kith and kin.
Where love is deepest, hurt can deepest be.
For, to our hearts, the strangers have no key.
