And pain is for comparing, so in the end no one cares about the pain you've been carrying
Caring more about the strain of preparing God's gift of declaring life in the fair seam of blaring inferring.
Infrared beems shoot out of her eyes while his demise is minimized to a copious demonized enterprise
"He fell because he stood", they might say after forcing up his feet without parlay, partially because his reach rose beyond safe days and grabbed comfort he cannot partake in.
A cardinal sin.
Perspective is twisted because of what the eyes haven't seen
The stray shots of padded benign beans growing naked under an oak tree.
Such things matter when feelings are laced into the open, do we only share emotion to keep hopes in that one day they'll feel our pain for us, or adore us for the plush stuff that remains after life gets through hurting us
To keep our bones from accumulating rust, you know...the red gush.
Why else would you need a hug after imploding underneath the rug with all the lost hush and broken glass with smoke and ash painting the whiskey in a stolen flask.
Pain is compared so it's never shared, we're far to scared to feel others pain so we redecorate blame and give it to each other, offer perspective that paints the other as wrong or right but the pain never chose a side in the plight
It simply happens and that terrifies those with their mind in the right
And so we go back and forth while the world rotates and reports small seedless wars sprung in conversation about whose pain is worse.
I'm tired of sympathy and I'm tired of competition over who has a more tainted pain-embracing history.
I simply want understanding. Not to be branded, nor have an explanation expanded.
I simply want the pain thats a part of me to be a part of me in the memories of offhanded close friends and family fragmented with hopes and similes granted by their perspective of how in the hell my feet got planted.
Romance meant two worlds would join hands and find stance in comprehension of the other shareholder's skin and not to mention the other organs entranced in a lack of contention.
Then why so often is pain kept within until it oozes out and paints over the thin line between love and hate.
With no love in place for the other person's authentic pain.
Simple maths shows which of the two would reign.
Jan 30
Jan 30, 2026 at 1:26 AM UTC
And pain is for comparing, so in the end no one cares about the pain you've been carrying
Caring more about the strain of preparing God's gift of declaring life in the fair seam of blaring inferring.
Infrared beems shoot out of her eyes while his demise is minimized to a copious demonized enterprise
"He fell because he stood", they might say after forcing up his feet without parlay, partially because his reach rose beyond safe days and grabbed comfort he cannot partake in.
A cardinal sin.
Perspective is twisted because of what the eyes haven't seen
The stray shots of padded benign beans growing naked under an oak tree.
Such things matter when feelings are laced into the open, do we only share emotion to keep hopes in that one day they'll feel our pain for us, or adore us for the plush stuff that remains after life gets through hurting us
To keep our bones from accumulating rust, you know...the red gush.
Why else would you need a hug after imploding underneath the rug with all the lost hush and broken glass with smoke and ash painting the whiskey in a stolen flask.
Pain is compared so it's never shared, we're far to scared to feel others pain so we redecorate blame and give it to each other, offer perspective that paints the other as wrong or right but the pain never chose a side in the plight
It simply happens and that terrifies those with their mind in the right
And so we go back and forth while the world rotates and reports small seedless wars sprung in conversation about whose pain is worse.
I'm tired of sympathy and I'm tired of competition over who has a more tainted pain-embracing history.
I simply want understanding. Not to be branded, nor have an explanation expanded.
I simply want the pain thats a part of me to be a part of me in the memories of offhanded close friends and family fragmented with hopes and similes granted by their perspective of how in the hell my feet got planted.
Romance meant two worlds would join hands and find stance in comprehension of the other shareholder's skin and not to mention the other organs entranced in a lack of contention.
Then why so often is pain kept within until it oozes out and paints over the thin line between love and hate.
With no love in place for the other person's authentic pain.
Simple maths shows which of the two would reign.
"The Other" is a concept used to refer to a person, or group of persons, that stand in an understanding completely separate from you, sometimes it completely opposes your own understanding.
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