On my forehead is an art
That even Picasso couldn't draw,
The scar I got from that one time
I fell off my cycle, before.
I had gotten up right after
As my cycle hit the wall.
The nurses were amazed as I sat there,
Not a single tear did fall.
It's an art nature gave me
And I recieved it warmly.
Every stitch is etched in my mind
And it always does remind,
The time I brushed off my hurt for the first time
And made me claim my scar, mine.
YOU ARE READING
Perfect Imperfections
PoetryImperfections are beautiful. Absolutely magnificent. One of the many factors that make us humane and don't let anyone make you believe otherwise. These poems are for those people who have been feeling down about their imperfections. I just had to re...
