My Scars

I am not the scars That you might know and see, They are not all mine they are ours They were all given to me. With evil spoken I felt the scab I also felt the anguish and the pain, On my body I felt the painful stab Then I saw the slain. Whenever mockery I had heard I felt a terrible blister, When racism or bigotry occurred I felt sad and hurt and bitter. At me if you ever look You never care to see my face, You might read about me in a book But, you don't like my color or race. Whenever your child does hurt Don't you also hold them and cry, Never from them do you dessert The same hurt has been in my eye. The scars that I still wear They were all given by you, When you hated and judged and did not care And believed what was not true. These scars that you know Are from every insult and hurt towards me given, And they fester and will grow But, I took them all, so you'd be forgiven. Randy L. McClave