I am actually not a fan of reading poetry. It usually is so far out there that I have no idea what they are talking about. Mine are not that. I take real stories and put it in a poem form.
Well a couple of days ago I went to Barnes and Noble and bought two awesome recycled notebooks and I started to transfer my poems into these books.
I have almost 100 poems.
This could take awhile.
I am very thankful for this little talent I have. I have no idea what will come of it and I jokingly say once I die I will be famous because of all my poetry.
Today while transferring some of the poems I came across one called "Scars" I wrote it back on January 9, 2009.
This poem is full of things I am thankful for. I could not say it better today than I did back then so I will simply post the poem.
This is what I am thankful for.
Scars
Scars that I hide, that I'm embarrassed to show.
Scars that I remember the story that goes.
Scars that have faded and some that are there still.
Scars that don't show but the pain I still feel.
Everyone has scars related to joy or hate,
but its the ones that bring life that we all appreciate.
Like the scars on my womb from the shots I daily give,
though painful and ugly they are needed for this child to live.
The scars across the chest of a breast cancer survivor.
The husband who loves them b/c it means he does not have to live without her.
The veteran back from war without one of their limbs.
They are sad, yet count their blessings b/c they returned home again.
The mother with her stretch marks that she does not like to show,
though they are evidence of the home where her child was allowed to grow.
A sort of memorial to look back on and remember each time
that life was produced , yet left a scar behind.
Each scar has a story but I believe the greatest of them still,
is the one of the hands where the holes did not heal.
We were lost and dying and quickly needed a breath,
and the only way to survive was through a new birth after Jesus' death.
He had scars on his body and on his head from the cruel crown,
left to die on the cross as it was placed in the ground.
His scars are a reminder of the freedom he wants to give.
We can have it if we want it when we call on His name and live.
by © charlene turney (jan 9, 09)
Scars that I remember the story that goes.
Scars that have faded and some that are there still.
Scars that don't show but the pain I still feel.
Everyone has scars related to joy or hate,
but its the ones that bring life that we all appreciate.
Like the scars on my womb from the shots I daily give,
though painful and ugly they are needed for this child to live.
The scars across the chest of a breast cancer survivor.
The husband who loves them b/c it means he does not have to live without her.
The veteran back from war without one of their limbs.
They are sad, yet count their blessings b/c they returned home again.
The mother with her stretch marks that she does not like to show,
though they are evidence of the home where her child was allowed to grow.
A sort of memorial to look back on and remember each time
that life was produced , yet left a scar behind.
Each scar has a story but I believe the greatest of them still,
is the one of the hands where the holes did not heal.
We were lost and dying and quickly needed a breath,
and the only way to survive was through a new birth after Jesus' death.
He had scars on his body and on his head from the cruel crown,
left to die on the cross as it was placed in the ground.
His scars are a reminder of the freedom he wants to give.
We can have it if we want it when we call on His name and live.
by © charlene turney (jan 9, 09)
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