Pain smells like rotten,
tastes like bitter
and walks like its storming.

It clings to your neck like a
snake spitting venom,
its tears like lightning
eyes pleading like the thunder,
screaming,
terrorized by its own voice.

It only dreams up nightmares,
its beating heart speaks louder than
a bass skin drum,
kicking an bouncing,
fighting, announcing:

Save me,
Hold me,
Mother Help.

And sometimes she does.

Other times not.
So the pain escalates,
and lies there confused,
soaked in a fountain of tears
and a mountain of more troubles
yet to climb.