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

Black Rose Night

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/truth-156/