The Cut

A cut on a finger, so small, so slight,
yet it opens the door to a deeper fight.
An expression of pain that’s more than it seems,
a spark that ignites a fire of screams.

Blood trickles slow, a crimson thread,
but inside it’s a storm raging red.
The wound is small, but the anguish is vast,
exploding in fury that cannot pass.

Ravenous anger, gnawing for an end,
a silent scream I cannot defend.
For this cut is a doorway, a crack in the wall,
where all the buried anguish starts to crawl.

A wound on the finger, but it’s more than skin—
it’s the floodgates of torment breaking within.
A sharp sting, a flash, and then the tide,
a deluge of sorrows I can no longer hide.

Why does this cut trigger so much pain?
Why does a nick unleash the rain?
It’s the weight of emotions, long suppressed,
exploding now, demanding to be addressed.

Anguish spills from this tiny slice,
a torrent of rage, cold as ice.
For sometimes it’s the smallest wounds that reveal
the deeper cuts we refuse to feel.

So here I am, with a finger bleeding,
but the true wound is the one I’m conceding.
The pain is not just in flesh, but in soul,
a cry for release, a desperate goal.

Let this cut be the final straw,
let it be the reason to withdraw
from the battle I fight each day inside—
a ravenous anger, impossible to hide.