Scars
I still remember when it first hit my skin.
The thin red lines, my silent plea for help.
Each stroke etched itself, thorn by thorn,
Onto the delicate masterpiece that is my heart.
Sometimes it would say a word,
Sometimes a name or a drawing,
But mostly it was those deadly dashes,
The scoreboard of my eternal game against the world.
When there was a wall of darkness,
There was only one way out.
Every slash to that black curtain,
Stained my life a deep, running red.
And with each detrimental blow,
I know there will never be a way out,
Because though the wounds on my skin may heal,
The scars on my heart will always remain.
YOU ARE READING
My Heart's Prison
PoetryThis is a collection of poems from a harder time in my life. They are not exactly joyful and have many subjects that people try not to broach frequently. These are very personal, but I hope that other people out there can relate. Thank you for readi...
