We are so busy hiding our scars
That we do not realise they make us who we are
I am not a motorbike accident
Or a continuous bumping into cabinets

But I AM what survived

These imperfections are testament
That I am still alive

I could ramble and rhyme
Keeping time
With an inane Bush poetry beat

But the truth is more profound
than predictable rhythms

Wearing these scars is more proof
Than I will ever need
That I have truly fought to be free