wanderingsoul
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Scars
We were talking, as friends do, and the talk turned to scars.
I said that I had one on my leg from when I fell off my bike.
Did he remember that day we raced down the hill? He did.
I said I had one on my ass from when I climbed out a broken window
in the middle of the night—when her father came home too soon!
I said I had one on my elbow from falling off a swing--
while showing off for a girl, of course. I laughed at the memory.
I told him I had only those three but I treasured each one proudly.
He laughed and said that he had so many scars he stopped counting them.
And smiled and said that he, too, treasured each one—but not proudly.
He said, “Each scar tells something of me, of my history.
They’re a wordless story written on my skin, a reminder of things I shouldn’t forget.”
He pushed back his hair and revealed a thin scar, barely visible, along his hairline.
“This one I got when my head hit a tile floor, slammed there by hatred.”
He raised his pant leg and pointed to a jagged line across his knee.
“This one reminds me of how I used to love to ride, and why I no longer can.”
He raised his shirt and pointed to a rough scar on his side.
“This one reminds me of what happens when hatred is left to festers for years.”
He raised his sleeve and pointed to small marks on the inside of his elbow.
“These remind me of what it is like to be addicted—to love and to self-destruction.”
He pointed further down his arm, to fine lines, crossed and re-crossed many times.
“These remind me of how pain took away the pain—for a while.”
Then he pointed further down his arm, to a thick scar across his wrist—still sharp, still pink.
“And this reminds me of when pain no longer stopped the pain—so I tried to stop it—permanently.”
He smiled, a little bitterly. “They each tell a piece of my life, an endless story written on my skin.”
I nodded, feeling like my own scars were insignificant, barely scratches on my skin.
And I said, “Yes, one endless story.” I had nothing deep to add. And he smiled again.
“Endless until it ends."
Last edited by wanderingsoul, 11/10/2004, 4:57 pm
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And by and by my Soul returned to me, And answered "I Myself amd Heav'n and Hell"
from The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam as translated by Edward Fitzgerald
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9/25/2003, 3:26 am
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MarkL15
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Re: Scars
I remember each scar also, physical and emotional and they each tell a story, you captured the importance of scars in this poem and made me realise just how important the scars are, they help us to remember the emotional scars that we often try to forget, the physical ones refuse to let us forget, its important we remember each scar, each failure each acheivement each wrong done too us and by us the things we have endured and yet still survive, scars stop us forgetting the past we try to hide from, and like there is no cure for physical scars but time, the same is for emotional ones that always take longer to heal. Very thought provoking poem luc as always a brilliant one.
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And I don't want the world to see me
'Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am
Goo Goo Dolls - iris
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9/25/2003, 12:17 pm
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maraga
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Re: Scars
first thought was a string of cursing....which I won't do....
except Bloody hell Lucas.....bloody everlasting firey hell..
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11/18/2003, 7:25 pm
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