SCARS.

In a pastor’s home, where hymns would ring,

A child grew up with songs to sing.

Yet within those walls, a silent woe,

A hidden hurt the world wouldn’t know.

“My lips are sealed,” the child would say,

Concealing pain in every way.

Amidst the sermons, the prayers, and grace,

Lay scars that time could not erase.

The weight of expectations strong,

Demanded perfection all day long.

But behind closed doors, the soul would ache,

With fears and doubts it couldn’t shake.

A pastor’s kid, a Christian soul,

Struggled silently to feel whole.

Amidst the Bible’s blessed word,

Lurked childhood wounds that often stirred.

The congregation saw a smiling face,

Unaware of the child’s hidden space.

In hymns and psalms, a heart unsure,

Whispering pain, it couldn’t cure.

But as time moved on, the heart found ways,

To voice the hurt from younger days.

“My lips are sealed,” no more the phrase,

For healing starts with words ablaze.

With faith as anchor, and grace to mend,

The child found solace, found a friend.

In prayers and love, the wounds did tend,

A path to heal, a pain to transcend.

No longer trapped in silence’s vise,

With open words, the soul found rise.

Through faith’s embrace, it claimed the prize,

“My lips unsealed,” in freedom’s guise.

The scars remain, but now they fade,

In the light of truth, they gently wade.

A pastor’s kid, now free from shade,

Embracing hope that won’t degrade.

By Walking Shadow Poetry Kenya