Scars? I have many.
Although, disappeared they may.
Symbolism isn’t exact.
Maybe not any importance.

Random. Weird. I think not.
Trip and fall.
Walk into a door.
All is too simplistic.

For me, simply it is.
Anyhow,
Stories arise from everywhere.

Ankles:
Purple dots scatter
The sensation wouldn’t disarm,
From where pesky mosquitoes attack.
For defacing the problem,
The only sense of relief.

Knees and legs:
Burns, gashes, scrapes
Saving goals; my primary job.
Get past me? I think not.
Therefore, consequences I suffer.

Left arm:
Furry tailed friends,
Implanted their memory here.
How I miss them so,
But never forgotten.

Shins:
Numerous times,
Running into objects.
A sharp corner, isn’t my friend.
Peripheral? Definitely not.










To me, It’s something.
To others, it’s nothing.
To mean more, is essential.
To describe;

I get irritated.

I get clumsy.

I love animals.

I love soccer.

I am tough.

I am real.

Real?
What is real?
Am I real?
Is my past real?

One pair of scars, tells it all.
Along the depths of my rabbits,
The past lays.
Not of my parents unsightly divorce,
Not of my cousin’s hit and run murder,
Not of my sister’s torture for being different.
But of the realest moment to me.

A burn, a cut, a gash;
All real.
Faults, insecurities, upsets;
All real.
Feelings, actions, words;
All real.

Still,
A Constant reminder,
With scars to prove,
There’s nothing more,
Nothing less real,
With no true meaning.