Scars

I hate my scars
So, now I intend to run until I drop
Fuck, I wish I could just step foot into a bar
Where I would then swoon to be your prop

But, do you really want me?
I feel like a used teather ball
I encourage isolation, so I may just exist and be
Perhaps I have now hit the so called "wall"

Tell me, do you think I'm used goods?
Reminded by a child, or are you more focused on the scars and marred?
So what do you require of me in the woods
But know beneath the anguish and pain I still see the light of the moon and stars