My skin is a War zone. Scars and scabs Cover the hidden places Under cover of soft cotton And long sleeves In 90 degree weather. Beautiful, bloody constellations On scared skin That has seen more Tragedy than Shakespeare’s Juliet, Broken, yet resilient, Forming entire galaxies Out of depression and sadness, And turning them into Symbols of what used to be, And reminders of what Should have been. But scars aren’t always visible, And the ones in your head Are far more beautiful, And telling of your strength Than the ones left on Your skin. Fighting wars with your Inner demons That taunt you inside Your mind, Leaving more casualties Than can be counted And remembered. But you know. You know of the war That you’ve fought And won, And the strength that You’ve created for yourself. A strength that no one Can take from you. A faith not in some higher, More holy being, A faith that you have built From the tears and the Scars of those wars you’ve won, And the strength that Comes from YOU. You don’t need someone To heal you, Someone to give you perfect skin, And a clear mind, Because you saved yourself. And those scars of battles You’ve fought, Are just there to remind you That you are INSURMOUNTABLE, UNCONTAINABLE, AND RESILIENT. No God can give you that.
God may not be dead, but who needs him anyways // e.c. (via descrtwolf)
