And yet, despite this, more red lines six months later. A ritual. The cutting in a secret, private place, more
It is a secret shame. Hard to comprehend
But I am lost in these roads. I cannot remember how to return. A small flower which once I saw the darkness Here I sit Here I sit Your knowing hands they grasp. And clasp I will not let you break me down, Here it ends
malignant and growing
The little things
that tear and grate
against your unbalanced soul
Annihilated thought
of a broken mind
Ripped to shreds
through a peaceful facade
The poisoned wisdom
of a tender heart
unwrapped and bared
for all to see
And the shaking hands outstretched
grasping
for what?
More pain?
It is
Inescapable, and yet
drawn to it; I cannot retreat
As if a moth, to a candle.
And once burned
returns
yet again.
Scorched, withered flesh,
My Soul
which cries
And needs that jar,
carrying to safety
delicate wings.
Once more to be set free.
The glass cracked,
and I,
left alone, longing
for that flame,
that burning
Pain.
To prove- not to them
to me!
I AM alive
tears,
rips.
A window to an undying pain,
inconsolable weeping,
from tortured minds.
So trapped,
waiting,
silent.
Quivering tears balance
on the precipice
of quiet desperation.
And trickling,
falling,
broken.
Onto soft, satin skin
smooth and delicate.
Bleeding.
sweetly smiling,
although through the agony wrenches,
which hammer, and pound.
Desperate bids for escape,
And yet, nestled inside this terrible womb,
She is safe.
No world of truth- or lies,
which await the day when that crystal shatters.
a thousand pieces, of minds, and hearts.
Awaking that princess,
freeing her into a tortuous existance
No everlasting unhappiness,
Just everlasting emptiness.
A cheerful, festive time for some. Not me. Not me.
The thin red road traced a line across my arm.
I felt proud. Satisfied. Fulfilled. An achiever.
Not for long. The negative feelings soon
Crowded out the positive, temporary ones. A
Non-solution, a worsening of the problem.
A map of parallel roads, a route
To nowhere. Except down. Down further into my hole. A
Black, black hole, with no way out. Red roads seemed
Promising. Hopeful. A journey upward.
Again a temporary lift. A cut; a
Physical, tangible pain to replace the
Gnawing pain at my heart and soul.
A pain I could not express.
Not weeping, not withdrawal, not anger,
Not violence, not sulks, but a cut
Or several.
Often now. The gleaming silver blade in its foil packet. The sharp
Smell of the antiseptic wipe and the crackling of the plaster wrapper.
The knowledge that I
Had achieved something,
A small sense of pride; admiration in my scars.
Unless you do it. Others weep or cry. I don’t.
I bleed. Red tears not salt ones.
The roads are deceptive. They are not a way out.
They are not an answer. They lead nowhere.
It is an illusion, they could be a solution, but they aren’t.
And now I am lost in these roads, a maze I cannot
Find my way out of. I cannot remember how to return.
I create more roads, in the hope
Of an end in sight.
dreams shatter and fall.
Foul, polluted everything.
Nothing like it used to be,
that innocence devoured;
Spat into this world now,
of corruption and pain.
bloomed, and was nurtured.
Only to be trampled
underfoot with the dirt. And the scum
overwhelmed that fragile beauty.
Withering in an obscene,
incomprehensible universe.
which mourns its loss.
A light which once shone out
hopeful; flickered and dimmed.
Plunged into darkness,
I knew no escape
And I lost my way in this world.
p>
drowning in fake empathy.
Slice through my non-existance
Needing pain to feel alive
Weeping for some unknown lost.
Tiny pinpricks feel like bombs.
Nothing, is the cross I bear
Crying for things I never knew.
Trying to find the future.
Dying, to know what's inside.
And waiting, waiting...
silence screaming
p>
I can't see MY own way like this.
You know what I should be, should feel,
You see into my mind
at my small world. I don't escape.
You are the only one I
see. Only you, not me.
abuse my mind, you bruise my soul.
Somewhere I will find the strength
that lets myself break free.
My life.
My Love.
Here I end.
