by Neil Clair
A free-verse poem about the scars we make.
|The scars that I make cost my future.
The scars that I create burn my skin.
But no matter the harm, it will never add up to my pain.
Some may say that I have nothing to worry about.
Some may say others have it worse.
But what can be worse than emotional self-infliction?
Worse than trauma to my brain?
If I had a penny for every day that I thought would be better,
I would be rich because every day I hope and think that it will be better
but it always comes up to the same,
painful memories that leave me looking up to the stars.
I try every method there is.
I try counseling but its too expensive.
I try telling others but they wouldn't listen.
Now I'm down to the last two options.
One I am afraid to take.
And the other I have no problem
because it all comes back to me making those scars.