A thistle can prick you as you walk by,
You dismiss it so quickly, keep your eyes dry.
Yet physical pain seems to be weak,
As there’s a greater pain caused by the one you seek.
It’s funny, I know, that love stikes fast,
But the longer it lingers, the longer the pain lasts.
Your mind may be weak, a shade of saddened grey,
I see you still yearn for that touch, the one that should stay.
Is it really sweeter to be crushed and torn,
Than to feel a brief infliction when stepping on a thorn?