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Scars

FUBAR

Jean Jacket Tough Guy
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These hand with which I stare so longingly…young…fresh…yet so scarred and beaten….lined with stories and tales of good and bad times…anger and sadness…nails which can be torn or cut…..ripped or left alone to grow….lines on my hands which speak of age yet having very little age of their own….stories kept hidden underneath the skin…..cuts come and gone…scars remain and dwindle….bruises come and go…..almost as if each could live a life of its own away from its body…with its own stories….troubles…sadnesses…depression…glee…and laughter. Though they have written this entire piece they have no mind to understand it……no thoughts…yet so many memories…do bruises and cuts really go away?? Or do they just dwell beneath the surface waiting to be remembered or talked about…scars plague my limbs and hold my mind…..memories of joy in the distant past…blocked by a darkness unknown…freedom holds its place…but will it ever be released….this deep strange anger…is it anger or just the sadness of a childhood gone…the memories left to dwindle….scarred by a future uncertain….where will these hands and scars take me…will they leave…..will these scars let me sleep or will they flourish and grow….seemingly haunting all that I cry out for in this world… are they understood, or just misread…do they long for freedom, or cry out for entrapment