The cuts of the broken. <br />Dead and yet alive. <br />Unbearable to think. <br />Unable to lie. <br />Truth is, but a scar on ones lips. <br />Tossed and thrown away... <br />How can it be held on to without being a scar? <br />If not a scar than what? <br />A wound? <br />A gash? <br />A lie? <br />A mask? <br />To what do i owe the greatness of only bearing scars? <br />For what is truth? <br />For what is ours to bare, but the greatness of being used up and thrown away? <br />Why does it have to lead to such a negative state of mind? <br />Can we not just bare with the soul?<br /><br />Black Rose Night<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/truth-156/
