Scars

They cut through your skin of innocence that night.
You crawled out naked and raw, the air keen in your lungs,
cold and throbbing with the promise of unconquered dawns.
Your soul burned in the red-hot heat of reality;
you ripped off the scabs with impatience.
Those scars are your story. You wear them with pride.

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9 thoughts on “Scars

  1. It was really hard for me to undestand but then thats poetry deep an rieverting in many ways.

    Chittz: Simone,

    Yes it is. And that is what makes it so fascinating. Thank you for stopping by, and taking the time to read. Keep writing.

  2. Well, the problem for me here is what to comment. And it’s really hard to judge a piece (at least for me) 6 lines long. Granted that the writing was insightful and might connect, it was far too short and vague to gather any praise or condemnation.

    Can we have another “Wish You Were Here”? 🙂

    Chittz: What you see is what you get, matey!

  3. i loved every word of it. beautifully articulated. though they are only six lines they speak the life of those who’ve worked towards their will and against odds of the world and succeeded. and yes, succeeded with pride and honour.

    Meera,

    Thank you.

  4. The previous comments say most of it that I had in mind, but the last line is amazing. To me, it gives the poem the dimension it needs.

    Chittz: Abhra, Thank you.

  5. absolutely, with pride! let they who inflict see them every day, a scar that does not fade is not meant to be forgotten!

    Chittz: Of course. Scars are also the little bag of souvenirs each of our past selves leave behind.

  6. Very nicely done. The whole thing is both vague and specific, and that sort of adds to the charm this piece holds. I mean, it’s sort of directly addressed to me, but not, if that makes any sense. 😛

    Chittz: I do get it! I think. 😀

  7. And of those itches that you scratch till they start to bleed. There is something to be said about the virtue of impatience.

    Of disowned angst.

    Chittz: Wait. I thought the whole point of angst is that it is arrived at after multiple dissections of the self – like an onion, keep peeling layer after layer and finally find nothing inside. How can angst be disowned?

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