Wounds

Wounds,
Injuries,
Scars,
What are these?
Are they merely imperfections,
Of the flesh,
Results of mistakes,
Of skin and bones
Mere memories and clouds,
Of a temporal pain and sadness.
Do these inflictions,
Even compare,
To the never fading,
Cuts and stabs,
That line our hearts and souls?
The never healing rips and tears,
Causing us to mourn and cry.
These wounds may never heal.
But,
They may also,
Never show.
We can hide them away,
Deep down inside,
Blocking the ever bleeding pores,
Of our hearts,
From the eyes of the world.
Not wanting people to see,
What is really beneath the surface.
Pretending that everything is ok,
When in fact,
You have never been cut this deep before.
Deep inside,
You secretly wish,
That someone will come along,
And actually notice,
The pool of blood,
Soaking deep into your shoes.
Concealing the hope,
That they could possibly,
In some magical way,
Make the pain go away.
Sew up the cuts,
Fill in the holes.
Whenever this person decides,
To come knocking on your door,
It won't be,
A moment too soon.