Scratch, scratch, scratch.
My face is left with marks of war,
Not of bombs, bullets, or swords,
But a war of my own
My eternal war.
There's scars on my face,
They mark each battle, each fight I've had.
The fights with myself,
over my mind, my rights, my will!
Over the memories of what I hold dear.
Scratch my face.
Pick at old scars.
Blood on my fingers,
On my face as well.
Injuries of old, injuries of new.
Pick, pick, pick.
I'm at my wits end.
This war inside won't let me mend.
The scars will stay where they are place,
So everyone can see the war on my face.
There's no cry to battle,
There's no one to claim war.
It's just me, myself, and I
And these scars I scratch upon my face,
Evidence of my own eternal war.
YOU ARE READING
From Inside Myself
PoesíaPoems I have written in my hard times and easy times. My worst and my best, close to death and one with life. Inspired by anything around me that had an impact with me the most. Words that flowed from my pen or pencil, letting my heart do the talkin...
