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I’m only liquid for fears, drowning quietly in them, a slow flood behind my ribs, no warning signs, no lifeguards in sight. You will be a sunflower, but only as far as you choose to reach out for the sun, bending your whole body toward light, even if the light burns, even if the roots ache from pulling. Happiness comes—eager, but never permanent— it’s a guest that tracks mud on your floor, leaves its jacket behind; just to remind you it was here, but gone before you could ask it to stay. The good things in life never seem to last a lifetime, and going out into this world feels like reaching for a lifeline, but all I catch is air— _thin, trembling air._ Since birth you were beautiful, but survival forced you to wear the ugliness of the world— stitched hand-me-down scars, fabric heavy with someone else’s shame. Each day is a costume change that doesn’t fit, but you wear it anyway, because naked truth doesn’t pay rent. We are all swelling with an opus of urban angst, the kind that hums under flickering streetlights, the melodic slang of hoodlum teens trading cigarettes for sentences, has become the hustle talk of men trying to feed the same hunger that never grew up. Yearning to be something. Yearning to be someone. Constellations made of shattered glass windows, cracked stars on the concrete, chasing after the sun as if the further we run, the closer it comes, but the horizon never owes us an answer. To love, to be loved— truth arrives dressed in lies at the start, perfumed to disguise the rot. We impress, but we press too hard, we call it romance but it’s theatre, and every stage ends in torn curtains. This life is love, but love isn’t so full of life when it hangs uneven, dangling off one side like a crooked frame. _Luck isn’t justice._ Cause and effect rarely add up to cause what’s fair. And yet we paint our burning visions next to piss-splashed garbage bins, turning dumpsters into backdrops, spray-painting scars into murals that smell like waste, mistaking rage for art. Scars deserve worth, not mockery. But too often, anger becomes our brush, dipped in venom, flung at the wall, and the picture never reaches far— _a masterpiece meant for healing drowned out by noise_.
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Oct 2, 2025
Oct 2, 2025 at 2:46 PM UTC
OddOdysseyPoet
Scars for Canvas
I’m only liquid for fears, drowning quietly in them, a slow flood behind my ribs, no warning signs, no lifeguards in sight. You will be a sunflower, but only as far as you choose to reach out for the sun, bending your whole body toward light, even if the light burns, even if the roots ache from pulling. Happiness comes—eager, but never permanent— it’s a guest that tracks mud on your floor, leaves its jacket behind; just to remind you it was here, but gone before you could ask it to stay. The good things in life never seem to last a lifetime, and going out into this world feels like reaching for a lifeline, but all I catch is air— _thin, trembling air._ Since birth you were beautiful, but survival forced you to wear the ugliness of the world— stitched hand-me-down scars, fabric heavy with someone else’s shame. Each day is a costume change that doesn’t fit, but you wear it anyway, because naked truth doesn’t pay rent. We are all swelling with an opus of urban angst, the kind that hums under flickering streetlights, the melodic slang of hoodlum teens trading cigarettes for sentences, has become the hustle talk of men trying to feed the same hunger that never grew up. Yearning to be something. Yearning to be someone. Constellations made of shattered glass windows, cracked stars on the concrete, chasing after the sun as if the further we run, the closer it comes, but the horizon never owes us an answer. To love, to be loved— truth arrives dressed in lies at the start, perfumed to disguise the rot. We impress, but we press too hard, we call it romance but it’s theatre, and every stage ends in torn curtains. This life is love, but love isn’t so full of life when it hangs uneven, dangling off one side like a crooked frame. _Luck isn’t justice._ Cause and effect rarely add up to cause what’s fair. And yet we paint our burning visions next to piss-splashed garbage bins, turning dumpsters into backdrops, spray-painting scars into murals that smell like waste, mistaking rage for art. Scars deserve worth, not mockery. But too often, anger becomes our brush, dipped in venom, flung at the wall, and the picture never reaches far— _a masterpiece meant for healing drowned out by noise_.
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