Some scars they lie on the surface,
body marked in wicked wounds unkind,
as I try to forget fragments
of the past that it hurts to find.
Faint line across my stomach
says they tore out the disease.
Infected, inflamed, infested,
departed during days on hands & knees.
Surgeon surprisingly stole an organ
as I lay exposed to my core.
I could have died right then,
destiny decreed I’d live lots more.
The burn above my breast it rises
red, raw, teasing there for all time.
Branded back in days when being different
must have been considered a crime.
Remember ‘wise men’ told me that
“These the best days of your life!”
I prayed it wasn’t true as I went
through torturous teenage strife.
Still, I’ll count my blessings,
at least said burn it is so small.
It’s almost like being irregular
isn’t even a real crime at all.
Some scars sit on my shoulders,
looking like bubbles on my skin.
Clear coloured and it’s clear with
bubbles that the fun must soon begin.
So should I join the dots drawing
dark designs dripping with mystic power?
Will they turn into a dragon
with jaws wide open to devour?
Or doodle a demonologist dealing
in the furious forbidden arts?
I hear that deals with Devils
are kinda common around these parts.
Some scars they run much deeper,
rotten pustules on the inside.
You’ll never see them clearly
cause sly scars soon learned to hide.
They say “What doesn’t kill you,
will only make you super strong!”
I can confess that this is true
but must dark days drag on so long?
I don’t deny darkness is there
but believe I’ve chosen the path of good.
I just thought that you should know it all
as I’d honestly hate to be misunderstood.
So, how about you then, do you have some scars I cannot see?
No matter how deep the damage dear, you’re beautiful to me.
Copyright © 2015 Philip Craddock. All rights reserved.