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Ink It leaves a black stain Where the needle grazed my skin Marking a moment of impulse and rebellion When my body wanted to hurt
Scars Still present From when My old self Died And I began To hide And stay away Small scars On my legs From when Writing Couldn't keep
In some places, scars are The most goregous, glimmering things you've ever seen. Intricate designs telling of forgotten pains And forged of blood. They speak to the strength of their owner.
Big hands, Soft like Clouds that Quickly turned Into violent Fists scarred With the Old memories Of us.
Two little cubs roaming through the plains, Run run the two went along. So young, and careless. They roamed until they arrived at an elephant cemetery.
365 Days of Pain An eighteenth birthday, A happy day for some, A painful day for me That day I became a bonde,
There are galaxies behind your eyes With more than a million stars. But why the constellations of your skies Look exactly like my scars?
The words of people have this cruel effect of getting under our skin, applied on the outside they are allowed to soak through. With the power to both heal and hurt they race through our blood,
i do not have scars, nor am I scarred or marked by such i am the scar the tree's root a tissue formed in passed over scenes the wound's product
With each scar
As the population grows, Every human being becomes less important, Of less concern to the person next to them. One day we will have found a solution to running out of resources and created more,
bruises come from many things from getting hit with a ball to a friendly punch that pangs
I love you like a fire burning with desire A love so strong that I've felt so long A love so deep that I can't even sleep A love so real that I can't help but feel
A green-skinned apple in your eye, An autumn sunset, a sweet pink sky, Who, with that mouthful of stars, Breathes summer on your meanest scars, And, with those long-fingered hands Always busy, lets you stand: