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The wounded mind walks silent streets, A war within it never beats. Scars unseen but cut so deep, Memories haunt, refuse to sleep. It builds a wall, it locks the door, Afraid to feel, to hurt once more. A whispered doubt, a ghostly call, Echoes rise, then start to fall. Yet cracks let in the faintest light, A flicker small, but still a fight. A voice, a touch, a gentle stare, Reminds the mind that hope is there. Not all wounds will bleed or show, Not all pain is loud to know. But in the dark where shadows creep, Even broken minds can heal, and leap. By Jason Strickland

The Wounded Soul A touch, a word, a fleeting glance, A whispered hope, a second chance. The way we treat the ones in pain Can mend the soul or leave a stain. A child who cries in silent fear, A wound ignored, unseen, yet near. A gentle hand, a kind embrace, Can turn the darkness into grace. The doctor bends, the healer sighs, A patient pleads with weary eyes. A single dose, a bandage tight, Yet kindness proves the true respite. For scars are more than flesh and bone, Some linger deep, some stand alone. And how we treat the broken hearts Determines if the healing starts. A sentence laced with bitter steel, Can cut as deep as blades that kill. A careless jest, a sharp critique, Can shake the strong and wound the weak. Yet words, when placed with love and care, Can lift despair from weighted air. A compliment, a simple cheer, Can wipe away the silent tear. How do we treat the ones we meet? With words like daggers, cold and fleet? Or do we gift them warmth and light, And guide them gently through the night? The way we treat the weak and small, Defines the height from which we fall. The beggar left without a name, The outcast bathed in silent shame. A world that turns from pleading eyes, Will find itself where mercy dies. Yet justice, when it stands alone, Is nothing but a heart of stone. To treat with fairness is to blend The hand of law with love’s amend. For punishment with no reprieve Leaves hollow hearts that can’t believe. A second chance, a moment spared, Might show the world someone still cares. And in that light, in fate’s own hand, A shattered soul may learn to stand. But what of how we treat our skin, Our weary bones, the soul within? Do we demand, yet never rest, And wear our burdens like a vest? The mirror shows a tale unkind, Reflections shaped by judging mind. We speak to self with cruel disdain, And drown in doubt, embrace the pain. Yet self-treatment, a patient art, Begins when kindness meets the heart. To nourish soul, to breathe, to mend,