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