Scratches on the walls,
sketches on the door.
I don’t really give a damn who sees this junk
supposedly called work of art, or poetry
or what have you.
I meant every letter, every word,
and I own every flaw.
It was not meant to be savored for more than
a blink of an eye, because these days
seldom does a feeling last longer than a life
of a butterfly.
The worse part of it is, you miss
the beauty in scratches and deep scars,
pass them by for something pretty
© annie scribes 2017
all rights reserved