Skin Deep

There is no paint on the clapboards,
no stain protects the wood.
Day after day,
in fine weather and foul,
the pretense, the pretty,
has been worn away
and what is left is raw,
and incredibly beautiful,
the bones of a life
with little left to hide,
where the scars are plain to see,
part of the charm.

All this time you feared this day,
fought it, hid from it,
sure the truth of what lived beneath
would render you unlovable,
and now you are there,
exposed. broken,
finally finding your beauty
is far deeper than you imagined.

About this poem

“We’re all a little broken.” is one of my catch phrases. It’s something I believe.
“We’re all a little beautiful.” is its corollary.

Tom