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Scars That Never Heal
What are scars really?
remainders of some past trial,
daily little reminders,
that deny you your denial.
Some people like to boast,
show em off to feel alive,
impress someone with the fact,
that you've hurt and bled a bit.
But what if you have more than you wish to count,
criss crossing your like some macabre decoration,
covering your soul, carved so deep,
they hurt to try and know.
Death is such a feared and frightening thing,
yet why is this?
Life is the fight, where death is simply surrender,
it is always harder to win a losing fight,
than to give up in your pain, welcome in the cold,
and sink so deep into oblivion.
What will ever heal,
the pain no 14yr old should ever have to feel.
Lying in that forsaken hospital bed,
as they feed me their toxic cures,
feeling that beneficient poison coursing through my veins,
losing that idealistic hope the young hold in such abundance,
wondering at the damage making me old so young,
wondering if the cure will rob me of the children,
I may have had, even as it robs me of those precious years,
years I've never gotten to live, those teenage years,
taken and traded for a jaded realism.
I am not as bitter as I seem,
truth isn't always such a pretty sound,
you only can cry for so long,
before you learn to laugh through the pain,
laughter that helps keep you somewhat sane.
It's hard to believe you're part of a plan,
where all you do is slowly die,
your everyday reality, pain that steals your breath,
your whole existence revolving around a broken shell,
everday living inside your own numb, sickened, living hell,
no longer screaming, your soul has not the strength to yell.
Waiting..... waiting for absolution,
waiting, waiting for a better day,
living on the hope of there being something more,
holding on so you don't let go,
holding on with your broken, tortured soul.
I've held a knife so many times,
seen the light glisten along that freshly razored edge,
honed by my intention,
waiting to drink in my heart's intervention.
Gripped and cocked that cold metal bit,
watching as that round cycles by,
seeing that magnum bullet ripping through my eye.
Only the knife never does get to feast,
nor the trigger ever get squeezed,
life is a fight, even when I'm losing,
suicide is just an escape,
which I am not selfish enough to take.
Too many people would miss me then,
too many felt somehow at fault,
no longer would I be here to make them smile,
no longer would I be here to bear their cares awhile,
no longer could they lean on me for strength,
when their own hearts grow heavy and start to slow.
