Proof that rhyme schemes beget emo poetry follows.

They say,

“With time everything heals.”
But although the years are wise,
Pain is not a creature that yields.

No, inside you he lies
in states either dormant or activated,
and during hibernation
he waited to be resuscitated by
new situations that emulated
old punctures and bruises
that once abraded your soul.
Though ephemeral they seemed at the time
within you pain has wrought his permanent hole.

Everything seemed fine,
but hurt is never truly abated.
It is only faded
into the background
of a vestigial vacuum
expanding, though still unfound,
until it rises again
as a phantom that impales you from within,
and you feel your old cosmic friend,
Pain,
here with his syringe.

“Be gone, I say,”
you recite in the words of a toddler at play.
And there you lay
temporarily protected by sleep
and your own naïveté.

Though, as you awaken the next day
there he creeps
and bores his boorish presence,
contributing to the internal fray
that withers your essence
as he makes his place to stay.

And you thought the hurt was gone?
Foolish—
it was only at bay,
and disappeared it had not.
It was there.
It is still here.
It always was.
You just forgot.