Everyone has fought

In battles of their own.

Whether with family or friends,

In lands far away or close to home.

 

Wounds do we receive

From the wars that we waged.

Some heal completely

While others stay an age.

 

Some people are proud

Of the markings of their wars.

They bear them with pride

And consider themselves lords.

 

Others see them as nothing

But a trivial mere scrape.

Something that reminds them

Of the bitterness and hate.

 

Still others do not pay them

Heed or time or worth.

Instead ignoring comments

And into the world forth.

 

But there are some people

That think as my mind does.

The scars I bear cause me

To remember who I was.

 

The battles I fought in

I never really won.

Captured by the enemy

Treated like no one.

 

The scars that I bear

I am ashamed of and hide.

They are not from strength

Or from courageousness or pride.

 

The things I have done

And the sins I have committed,

Gave rise to the scars I bear

And of my faith skidded.

 

My enemies return

Every now and then,

To remind me of my worthlessness

How sinful I had been.

 

You see, unlike the others

I have no battle scars.

They were taken all from me

By the one who wins all wars.