Guess whose back, back again,
I bet you thought that was the end.
That I was tired, my voice gone,
That you knew this would happen all along.
That I tripped over tied laces, fumbled and fell,
That I was too weak to get up and rebel.
That I was bruised, hurt, and locked behind bars,
Ashamed of my flaws, ashamed of my scars.
Cut at the corners,
Pulled apart at the seams.
Trapped in an ever enclosing box ,
Hid from the sun and its beams.
But now I'm back from the dead,
Burnt from the ashes,
With my wounds, my scars,
Proud of my cuts and my gashes...
~!~Diana
YOU ARE READING
A Poem Is Worth A Story
PoetryDo you think something's not real, A legend , a superstition. Did you ever want an answer, A reason, an explanation. Stories could be fake, People could too, But it's not in our hands, To define who's who. Like how a picture is worth a thousand word...
