Take a look at my scars, and I’ll tell you a story,
But not every story has a scar.
They may frighten you, even be a little gory
But I’m proud of them by far
They’re numeric, reminder of the time
A past hysteric, reminder of the climb
There’s no big hand, nor small hand, just ticks on the inside of the wrist
And in either past, or present, I stand, The small hand still exists
With every tick and every tac, came a click and a comeback, and every time I thought I lacked, I came back, I came back
So the scars you see, aren’t the scars that hurt
The scars that bleed, aren’t that overt
And may I assert,
That real scars need to be pestered and picked, overtime they fester and restrict
One day the slice was slow, as I cut deep into the skin.
How I watched the blood go, as I fell into a grin.
Though you couldn’t tell at the time, But, that’s when I had total control.
In the youth of my prime, when my honor was stole.
Waiting for assurance, but assurance was delayed,
expecting a father’s love, but Love was betrayed.
And now the blood is pooling, and the scar begins to clot,
my heart begins its cooling, but the blood is still hot
There’s no fret, no confusion, nor panic
All what I let, no dissolution, nor manic
For what comes next is easy and simple, of how to mend the gash.
After a thorough cleaning, it’ll heal up in a flash
But deep cuts take long to heal,
They’re a constant reminder of what’s real
There’s a constant reminder of the deal
Constantly restricting what you feel.
You have to restrict the scar from growing
The power comes from managing the pain.
Stop the mind from knowing
Restriction of the brain.
So which story would you rather Hear?
The one of Triumph or the one of Fear.
Because both start in the same place
But, one ends at the surface, while the other at the base.
And while my deepest cuts remain covered
A person is discovered.
Beyond the cuts, only skin deep
Deep into the secrets I keep
Cuts that scrape down to the soul
That no medication can fill the hole
But, now I can stand and walk
Even when those around stare and gawk
I shed the weight of the shackles of my past, and hope that this time it will last
There are no tales told of a heroine a slave
For my story is brave. And in my story, I save.
For if you knew me, you’d see.
That deep down, I just want to be, Free
For the ones that live with their scars