The Sting of Feeling

To prick at my feelings stings me with pain,
a wound reopened again and again.
I pluck at the strings of my heart’s dismay,
leading me deeper into this play.

A delicate touch, yet sharp is the thorn,
each pull of the thread leaves me torn.
The strings I pluck sing a mournful tone,
yet I cannot leave these wounds alone.

For what is pain but a melody sweet,
a sorrowful rhythm that pulls at my feet?
The more I touch, the more I bleed,
yet in this torment, I find what I need.

To prick at my feelings, to pull them apart,
is to uncover the secrets I hide in my heart.
The sting of each note, the burn of each line,
brings me closer to the truth I can’t define.

Yet why do I play this relentless song,
knowing the pain it brings along?
Is it the need to feel something real,
to grasp at the wounds that never heal?

I pluck and I pull, though I know it’s in vain,
for every note brings a fresh wave of pain.
But still, I persist, in this dance I must sway,
caught in the strings that lead to this play.

For in the sting, there’s something profound,
a whisper of truth that cannot be found
without the pain, without the ache—
a lesson I learn, a risk I take.

So let me prick and let me pluck,
pulling the strings with trembling luck.
For though it stings and though it burns,
it’s in this torment my soul returns.