We all walk with wounds,
some carved on the body, some carved in silence,
all heavy to carry
Soldiers walk with bullet marks, but heavier than lead
are the nights they cannot sleep in peace.
Mothers walk with scars on their bellies, their breasts cracked with milk,
yet no one sees the wound of sacrifice
the life they gave away to raise another.
Students wear shadows beneath their eyes,
dark circles stitched with fear,
their backs bent under books that promise futures,
yet steal their youth.
Employees drag invisible bruises, smiles cracked by unpaid worth,
dignity swallowed in boardrooms, their souls blistered by “maybe next year.”
Lovers carry wounds no doctor can touch,
dreams shattered quietly, affection fading drop by drop,
until two people stand together
feeling galaxies apart.
Every wound misunderstood as anger,
every silence mistaken for coldness,
and love ends not with thunder,
but with distance
growing inch by inch.
Children also walk with wounds, not from falling,
but from words that never came,
from embraces withheld,
from fathers too busy,
from mothers too tired.
Friends walk with fractures in trust,
smiles that hide betrayals,
questions left unanswered.
Elders walk with wounds of loneliness,
surrounded yet unseen, alive but waiting,
as if each day is a slow farewell.
Artists burn with rejection scars,
their hearts cut open
every time a creation is dismissed as nothing.
We all walk with wounds
some red and raw, others invisible,
misread as temper, as pride, as weakness.
And the cruelest wounds
are not the ones that bleed
they are the ones that eat us quietly,
the ones that grow when we are misunderstood
by those we love the most.
The wounds that never close,
that no apology can stitch,
that no hand can hold shut.
They remain silent, invisible, and eternal.
Because the deepest wounds,
These are the ones that no one ever sees.