My scars remind me of many things…
Some I want to remember and others I want to forget.
I am pure to the truth but I swell in regret.
Shame, pain, triumph, strength… scars represent.

There are no badges to wear;
I have no pride to hide.
I am not a product of the stories;
I refuse to be a prisoner of my descents.

The past is often forgotten...
Memories distort beyond recognition.
Scars will fade, darken, stretch and shrink.
But the deep ones stay; I still can’t forget.

Emotions dissipate... or so I thought.
But now I believe they simply hide
beneath layers of damaged skin...
keeping those scars painfully alive.

It isn’t protection; it isn’t healing.
No badge I’ll wear; no pride I’ll find.
Yes, these scars are mine…
But I am not my scars! And my scars are not yours.

To some, I am marked for life;
I cannot control their stereotypes.
I **** them and their forced opinions!
They thrive on my scars; they try to create new wounds.

Sometimes, I let you see my scars… but I am far from naïve.
I know I am giving you a temptation and a tool.
Don’t try to own me… you are a fool to think you know me.
The why, when, and how is my personal mystery.

I won’t let you look beyond the fragments;
Deep below the layered scars hides my truth.
I will not allow you entry; I am still afraid.
Self-inflicted wounds are far more acceptable.

I do not wish for more scars…
to add to my repertoire.
I do not wish for more adversaries…
to shove me back into the ground.

My past is mine and mine alone; it remains a part of me.
But despite the spite I feel…  
My past is not my present; my past is not my future.
And it certainly is NOT any of your business.

When you finally realise
that all your precious rhymes
were wasted
on flitting butterflies
you'll walk away embittered,
lonely, and out of time
with nothing but fading memories
like a phantom limb
of the heat that comes
from that someone else's hand
in yours.

Sometimes we succeed and sometimes we learn,
Every ounce of wisdom is something that we earn,
The pages of life they constantly turn,
So self judgment should soon be adjourned,
The doorway is open we need just endure,
Make sure to **** out all the negative allure,
A beautiful future is something we ensure,
Life is subjective by how we infer,
Anger, fear and resentment cloud our sight,
Things might go wrong but that's only a might,
Why think so low when you could take flight?,
Why love any less when it's a new height? ,
Switching perception can feel kind of strange,
Its practiced in aim not from your range,
It's less of losing and more of exchange,
For a better inner world to be self contained,
There we are for so long we've concealed it,
Door number 3 has finally revealed it,
A letter to our hearts and now we must seal it,
Don't think about feeling life and just feel it.

She read my journal
My internal thoughts spewed out of her mouth like *****.
Anger. Regret.

I saw him as a book then
And he was easily read
Flipping through his memories, I found tainted history
Tears

Oh, woe is me
this girl, she knows everything.
My incestuous mind
unkind and dark
genuinely written without hesitation

Yet here I stand
Confused, taken aback
Stricken with...
...curiosity, perhaps
Sadness and unknowing
And his eyes apologize while his frown regrets

Perhaps she now feels closer.
There's nothing to hide inside
A relief.
I am disgusted by your actions.

I wonder if he still loves me
He won't take the words back
Ink never erases, and scars remain
And so does my heart
Rooted to my sleeve yet chained to his palm

"I'm sorry", I forget to say
Words so typical end up filling the room
breaking all glass
You made me like this
my words are a byproduct of your insanity
You're sad.
Yes, sad. We are all sad.
You are not entitled to read such things
wretch

I peered into your soul today
Something twisted and half alive
Fault?
A face, my face to place blame
I'll never walk away
Without another war wound
But I'll bleed you dry
Should I question morality? Am I human?
What happened to us?

You seek knowledge, yet cower in its presence
" all loving" I mock the idea
for you despise my words.
My work.
What are they, but a part of me?
Your voice is timid
Your despair, unsettling..
speak

Silence is all I want to hear anymore...

What kind of person
Asks to be a muse?
A sick kind of person; a sadist
But I suppose I like that
Because I keep finding them.

It’s something you can’t attain
But want more than life
That creates art.
What kind of person would want anyone
To hurt that badly?

She stripped me down and sprayed me.
I was naked between two fans, freezing.
She tied me to a chair in a dim room.
Decades of hatred and punishment for being born.
She was bitter.
Her heart was cold.
She could never accept love, not even a friendly hug.
Manipulating the ones she loves.
But I never held it against her.
Years of resentment lead to years of substance abuse and clandestine disloyal-ties.  

With feet in the sink, the plunger seal cracks.
And the color drained from her eyes.

I try to remember the "good times."

Just to realize I'm drowning,
Drowning on Hallmark lines

Remembering the "good times"
Smiling complacently
Drowning on Hallmark lines

And I realize the memories
Were all good

One lines.

my mind is a wasteland of negative thoughts
self-pity, resentment, and fear-- they bury themselves
deep in my mind slowly decomposing, but sometimes are
reborn when I feed them

I would be consumed by dark self destructive thoughts
that would eat me away from the inside, if it was not for my heart sorting and purifying my negative thoughts into good intentions that grow into thoughtful actions to help others

I always thought I could think my way out from the hell I created, but what really freed me is allowing my heart to sing

I needed the help of others who survived their own wastelands
to believe my song was worth singing, their voices carried me
until I found my own melody bubbling inside of me

my heart sings to remember not to loose hope, and reach out to others