I have this scar
It sits on the inside of my wrist
It rides over bright blue veins
And you can't help but notice it
Or at least I can't
I've tried erase it
From my wrist from my life
Tried a couple ways
But still there it sits
For these last eleven weeks
Which is what it reminds me of
An eleven
Two strait lines
I reflect on it often
And get embarrassed every time my blood is drawn
Or I make a high five
But it will remain the only one
I promise

Except this is what people see
A small part of a larger story
No I am not about to go into why I'm a cutter the rest of this poem
Because I'm not
But everything I said is true
I have that scar
And looks like self harm
But it is not
I would never
It's obvious and persistent
And I did get blood drawn often
But because I was sick
lots of people don't know the story behind my scar
It take seven seconds to make an impression
Seven seconds for others to judge
The day I got this scar was the day I wanted to never judge again
Because the embarrassment I felt at blood tests for something I did not do
Was real
The judgement I feel I get while shaking a hand envelops me
I would never want someone else to feel that way
As humans we think we are so smart
But
We
Are
Not
That person we think we have figured out
We might not know at all
Anger might mean hurt
Annoyed might mean stressed
Withdrawal might mean depressed
That girl who wears the same sweatshirt everyday
Might only have one
The guy who bullies kids
Might be bullied at home
I don't know the story behind the face or the reason for the tears
Like they don't know how I got this scar
There's a story to every person and knowing the last sentence never once meant you read it all

All the friends you have now were strangers at a point
never hesitate
Say hi and be you

Tergiverate.
You're talking.
Equivocate.
I'm listening.
Prevaricate.
They hear too.
Mask it,
Cloak it,
With pretense
And disguise.
Truth seeps out
Throughout
Your pattering
Lies.

So you say poems don’t sell
ain’t no buyer for your works
arduous hours of a job done well
go down the drain fetch no perks!

You’re right poems do don’t sell
though you fill them with heart’s spice
by the hour growing weary and frail
you surely can’t feel any nice!

A dollar a poem how fine it would be
add a dollar a read to it
but poems are meant to be sold just free
you aren’t to be paid for the feat!

But you’re wrong poems do sell
them the readers do buy
when to their heart your thoughts travel
and their spirit soars up sky high!

you're the kind of girl
that they write books about
i always thought you were fiction
but i can't even remember
the last time i finished a good book
i always drop it at the ******
maybe it's because
we never reached ours
speaking of not being able to finish things

[holyoak]

A poet,
One of our best,
Got far
Inside himself.
He LOL a lot,
Used emoticons
And dots,
To share
Personal thoughts;
Then he forgot
His name.

A pseudonym's
A precarious thing;
Its acronym
Might fool you.
But a nom de plume
Becomes you,
Like Twain, Orwell
Or Seuss.
So, when your writing
Takes you far,
It's important
To remember
Who you are.

Clear clouds overhead
But Troubling thoughts crowds my mind
Fear my only friend