We all have different tolerance when it comes to pain

And we all differ on how quickly we heal

It's amazing how one can hurt and bleed so much from just a mere paper cut

While others don't even notice and just get an almost if not invisible nasty cuts

But both hurts

just on different levels

And both leave scars

Deep or shallow

Visible or not

And just like in Life

For others

the pain and suffering is much too obvious and for the world to see

While others prefer to hide and sit quietly

Make a strong facade

So nobody would take notice

But both are bleeding and hurting

And all they could do is wait

To be healed

He looks down at his hand,

down at his father,

down at his hands,

shuffles papers,

winces at the sting.

He remembers being young,

being tiny, being lifted.

He hated when his father held him,

preferred the softness

of his mother's embrace to the

callouses, the creases,

all lines and angles

and alcohol, smoke,

and grease.

Papa was a mechanic,

always came home smelling like work,

stains and smears and bruises and burns,

but barely a scrape, rarely a scratch,

and never a cut.

He had strong hands;

he was a strong man,

but a soft one.

Never an unkind word,

rarely a frown. He was hard,

but warm,

with a smile that was ever-present

and always unassuming.

He sighs, lays his hands against his father's.

The cut on his palm hums

at the cold.

"He was my hero..."

I flip through the pages

Staring at the prodigious book

Fixating on twisting sentences

My weary arms swaying under the pressure

I lift my sharply burning finger

Spot an inconspicuous line of vermillion

Divert my gaze toward the paper cut

A new member of the creases on my palm

Screaming for recognition, burning desire to be heard

Turning bright crimson, a desperate attempt

To be taken seriously, to be healed

I press the flesh against it

Forcing a tiny drop of blood out

It shrieks louder, more dolorous than before

Vying for attention

I slap a Band-Aid onto it

Shutting it up

Disregarding it’s hideous cries

Disrespecting it’s indignation

After all, it’s merely a paper cut

Who in the world ever listens

To trivial matters, no matter

How hard it tries to be heard?

Paper cut reminding me it's the smallest of things that cut the deepest.

The words that are said in anger that last a lifetime.

A look of disapproval when forgiveness cannot be found.

The small oozing of blood running quick, and I rush for a band aid. Sometimes, a small smile and warm hug against a bleeding is all that is needed.

So you fell and scraped your knee

And you cried for all to see.

They bring you bandages to dress

The wound and make the hurt seem less.

You have broken your right arm.

The fall down did quite some harm.

They smile and sign your cast,

And tell you the pain won’t last.

But a paper cut is in this verse,

And the pain is somehow so much worse.

For this pain, they laugh at all the way home,

And you must bear it all alone.

*I don’t do all rhyming poetry very often so this is a bit of an experiment. Meant to sound a bit nursery rhyme-like. Anyway, I just did five college exams in this week and have more next, so time for the sleeps. Goodnight Prosers!

...

Prosers. I kind of like that. I may use that more often on here to refer to the band of crazy writers that we all are. Just a fun thought.

Goodnight for real this time!

I have been in pain.

I have had heart break completely shatter my existence.

I have never believed that time could heal a wound,

And I have always believed that scars were simply maps to tell you how to return home once you were lost inside of yourself.

If you have ever had a paper cut on your soul and watched as bits of the Crimson skies inside of you came out for all to see,

Then you have felt my weakness

And seen my misery

And known my name.

-ashleyanne

\[ovo]/ ____________

[] -|OWWWWW! |

/\ ____________

This is what I say when I get a papercut: "ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow. WHY DID THE RECEIVER OF THIS PAPERCUT HAVE TO BE ME!?"

three hours later: " Mmmm.... pho. Pho tastes good with lime-OW!

What I'm saying is that papercuts keep me away from something that I think is great. Another problem is that I really like to draw on paper. I just came up with an idea a couple seconds ago: wouldn't it be great if someone invented paper-cases?