Scars

If you pick at your wound,
and keep drawing blood,
it will take a long time to heal.

Once it does close,

it scars.

Then you’re marked,

for all time with the
memory of your
injury.

The rest of your days,

you have this symbol
of the time you couldn’t
stop picking at it.

No matter the lotion,

the balm,
the butter,
the cure.

It’s on you,

this mark of memory.

The scar to sour even

the happiest of moments,
the richest, the wittiest, the bravest,
the saddest.

The symbol of your persistent

picking ever etched on everything
you do.

No one gets it,

each scar is unique to the
picker. It can’t be explained,
it can’t be easily understood.

It’s just there.
Always.

Marring what is supposed

to be lovely.

It has no humor.

It has no drive.
It has no ambition.
Yet, it is alive.

The scars.

The depression.
A struggle to survive.  

It’s difficult to see

the reflection of the person beyond
the scars at times.

Everything fades except

the hot white lines the skin
shades.

To look beyond is grand,

but it takes better eyes
at times.

Scars mark the moments

of our victories and our losses.

Depression puts the losses on

display like a sideshow freak.

“Come see the great Depresso!

The Saddest clown there is!
He’ll make you wonder if
it’s all worthwhile! See his
scars! See his mess! See the frown
behind the smile!”

Some see the clown,

Others only see the scars.
Some can laugh,
some can’t.

There’s no just sucking it up,

there’s no just do it,
there’s no just getting over it.

It’s our scar,

it’s there,
un-ignorable.
Present,
forever.

It’s a daily choice,

to see the scars or
see the smile.

Today it’s a smile.