The Grip We Call Reason

Pain finds us all without a knock or plea,
It does not pause to ask if we’re prepared.
It floods the shore of who we thought we’d be,
And leaves us standing, naked and unspared.
But suffering is a different kind of guest,
It only stays because we hand the key.
We build it rooms and give it all our rest,
Then wonder why it never lets us be.
We grip the wound like proof that we were wronged,
We polish it and wear it like a crown.
The story hardens where the hurt belonged,
Until the self and story can’t come down.
We call it reason when it’s only fear,
We call it boundary when it’s only wall.
We dress our grasping in a robe called clear,
And swear the mirror never lies at all.
Watch how the mind repeats its oldest line,
The same tight fist rehearsed a thousand times.
We think we’re arguing some truth divine,
When we’re just guarding old, familiar crimes.
Beneath the poise, the calm, the practiced face,
A frightened child still negotiates the door.
The armor we call logic, wit, or grace
Is just the scar demanding one thing more.
To those who drown in dialogues self-made,
Who wage the war until they’ve lost the peace—
Lay down the sword you’ve sharpened and displayed,
For winning arguments will not bring release.
Open the gate and let the wound instruct,
Not rule, not reign, not build a lasting throne.
It comes to teach, it does not come to construct
A prison where you live and die alone.
Healing does not wait for perfect light,
It starts the instant sorrow loosens grip.
Choose hope not as escape, but as the fight
To let the old wound heal instead of rip.

…
DCG

Pain reaches everyone without asking permission, but suffering grows when you continue holding onto its presence. Open the gate, let it teach something, then watch it disappear, because every wound should shape you, not trap you, and healing begins the instant you choose hope instead of sorrow.”