Beautifully written, I identify with this poem.
It’s soft, fresh and new.
Left untouched to this new world’s stresses.
Fragile, in need of constant care.
Only my mother knows this skin.
It stretches as I grow.
It ages as the years pass.
Still I pay no mind to it.
I run and I feel the air brush against every inch.
I fall; now I see the colors spring to life.
I begin to create lines in it with my smile.
It changes color.
The sun’s glow transfers onto me.
The darkness takes the glow away.
It’s fun how chameleon-like my skin is.
Has begun to bear scars.
Not from my falls, but faults of others.
None that anyone can see.
But scars I can see, every time I look in a mirror.
How can people see these scars too?
Has stretched and rolled over the years.
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