Without Understanding

I don't understand a lot of stuff I love.
Accumulated over time
Between the worrying
And the working,
In the midst of a difficult year.
Life is tough, it doesn't
Pull any punches.
If you'd asked me two years ago
I would have had nicer
Things to say,
But the truth isn't always pretty.
Like the nicks and cuts that come
From a dry shave.
The blood scabs on your face.
They say that time heals all wounds.
But no matter whether
Painting a picture
Of sitting in a staircase
Or drawing a line,
It is hard to show
The passage of time.
Scars remain as forever reminders
Of the hurt, the loss, and the heartbreak
We have endured.
I don't understand a lot of stuff I love
And the people even less.