They say that nothing matters but the heart within your bones,
And the stories that live within your skin,
That the canvas does not tell the story of what it really represents
And the artist that painted our skin is nothing like the art they painted inside our hearts.
But if this is true then why is it
That everytime I show my scars,
My flaws and my tales,
I get thrown into the wasteland of darkness,
Alone and lost.
And why is it that everyone I know gets judged,
Based on their looks and style.
And that all I see are people who look at the paint on the skin,
That covers the reality of the heart.
Why is it that instead of looking behind the mist,
We look at the outside of it instead,
And cower at the distant shadows that look like monsters.
For all we know they could be nothing but beauty,
Different pieces of art stitched together with hope and love.
Waiting for the time to come out from the shadows,
And into the distant light
Where the pain on their skin will be chipped away,
Exposing their colours,
And they will be accepted for who they are,
And loved instead of feared.
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Poem / Editorial and Opinion
Poem / Poetry
Poem / Poetry
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