Below is the poem entitled Scars which was written by poet
Raiken. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.
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.The survivors. Yes, that's what we call ourselves. We've lived through the terrors of life.
Gentle hands, soft spoken, safe in his arms. Obey, and listen, and the swirling melody of
love plays throughout the scene. And yet, this masquerade is always broken to reveal the
truth. Words sharper than daggers explode around our ears. Bruises appear on our skin.
We've "fallen", the clumsy females we are. We fell. A sports injury, a car crash, a freak
accident. Freak accident of hatred. Much like the lion, quiet and stalking, and then exploding
into a flurry of the hunt. Of the hurt. Swift blows, and blood drips from noses, tears stream
from eyes in a silver river of desperate please, bruises decorate us in tawnys and majestic
purples. Reminders of our "wrong doings". We need to pay for our sins. The only witness are
the walls, and the moonbeams that dance about our dizzy heads. On the ground. Steel toes
to the back. A crack. Fire. Pain. And then, a cool silence. The rage subsides, and apologies
appear. "I'll never do it again" and "I lost control" replay in the back of our heads. Our deja-
vu from the previous night. Always the same. Always the pain. The survivors. Thats what we
call ourselves. And by the dark dance of the moon against the velvet sky, as stars twinkle
like sequins, and fade into the dawn, we pick ourselves up. New excuses. New plates to buy.
A new alarm clock. New knives, doors, but no new hearts, stabbed until the hemmoragging
hurts like a firestorm. Alone. We are alone. We, the Survivors, have lived not an apocalypse,
not a plane crash, but the darkest part of our lives. Therapy can lock it away, but never
remove the dark stain of dried blood upon our souls. Lost. We come together, and escape.
We start anew, but are never the same. Dark dreams, paranoia haunting our shadows, and
the jumps that come with shattered glass of the clink of dishes. Never the same, but
stronger. What doesn't kill you is sure to leave a horrible scar, but wounds heal And while
scars remain as a reminder of the pain endured, we are, for the better, stronger. We