The Quiet Truth

The Wound You Do Not See

We walk in crowds yet bleed alone,

carrying hurts we dare not name,

mistaking the wound for who we are,

and calling the ache by living's name.

We seek not love but recognition —

a mirror that reflects our pain,

and when the thrill speaks to the broken,

we follow, breathless, into flame.

The new, the cool, the rushing stranger,

the laugh that pulls like open sea —

we call it fate, we call it feeling,

we never call it what we flee.

And deep we sink before we see it,

bound to the one we should have passed,

for hurt will always find its likeness,

and broken chooses broken fast.

But there is ground above the hunger,

a stillness louder than the crowd,

where instinct waits with quiet patience

for the self too long disavowed.

Hold to it. Though the laughter mocks you,

though cool extends its gilded hand —

know this: the loudest in the circle

are often those who least can stand.

For hurt conceals itself in laughter,

in charm, in thrill, in being seen,

and hurt will reach for what reflects it,

and call the burning feeling clean.

So keep your senses. Guard the silence.

Let the crowd chase what it must.

The truest thing you'll ever carry

is the self you learn to trust.