Stumble upon a man, sitting at a stand.
His face bears drawn – and rough are his hands.
Through those deep eyes, you see the pain arise.
From deep within you see the mess where so many scars lie.
Where got you all these scars, you ask,
Was it under fiery skies? As you stood firm and fast?
Was it the enemies of old that behold?
That struck so deep and left these wounds in your soul.
No, my friend. These scars that refuse to mend –
They came from people who we’d call friends.
Friends with an apostrophe at the end.
Friends cause they should’ve been on the blacklist instead.
Story behind the poem:
Nothing has changed my mind that the greatest enemies are often those we call friends. Sometimes those friends even think they’re friends, yet by their actions, they wreck more damage in one’s life than they ever built up.
photo by Thomas van den Berg