Marks on the wall, straight across the hall.
Traced on the wall, a face full of scars.
Erase it off was all, but I made no move at all.
Traced I' long the wall, to end it on a scar.
A scar which made me low, but lines which helped me grow.
To make a mark along the wall, to me which it now belong.
To Mask the scars below, to let me move above.
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A poem to mark the mistakes of my life to which I am grateful now.
YOU ARE READING
ScRiBbLeS
PoetryScratches of the Soul. Nothing special. What i feel when i open the page goes in without a thought.
