Insert witty name here
New member
Im not poet, but I just wrote what I feel. Is it any good?
I’m just sitting here, crying.
Bleeding.
The sting on my arm doesn’t distract me from this grief.
The blade feels cool against my skin, as I run it over ever so gently,
Searching for a spare patch of pale skin not already covered by angry red cuts.
How frustrating.
Why didn’t I save some room for a time like this?
Cutting anywhere outside this limit would mean exposure to my habit.
Exposure to my habit, exposure to my mind.
No one knows.
Even I’m often confused by it.
The few who claim to understand, don’t understand anything.
How cowardly.
A few deep slits vertically and this all could be over.
I like to think the only reason I’m keeping myself here is for my mother.
But I know it’s because I am a coward.
Disgusting, ugly horrible coward I am.
I attack my arm in deep, angry slashes.
It doesn’t matter if I have already cut there.
As long as I cut.
I drop the blade with shaky hands, and slip into a long-sleeved shirt.
Seeing the gashes would hurt my mother more than they could ever hurt me.
Silencing my tears, I sneak outside.
Must get out of this stifling house, the walls caging me in.
A slight chill breezes through the 4am air, fresh and smelling of dew.
The sky a light gray-pink.
I step over the wet grass to the backyard.
Sitting on the little asphalt trail.
The draft cools my cheeks.
How odd.
Nothing had ever seen completely real to me,
But it seemed as I had such trouble believing that she was really dead,
Everything else seemed just as unreal.
The wind rustled the branches of my backyard forest.
My eyes rested on a tree that was green as a rose’s stem, with white pastel flowers.
How could I still find things beautiful?
Wasn’t death supposed to make everything seem gloomy and dilapidated?
My mind is an ugly, twisted thing.
The sting still lingering in my arm proved I could feel, but I couldn’t
Help but wonder if my sense of feeling was as impaired as my sight seemed to be.
I run my fingers over the springy moss.
I was feeling it, but I couldn’t focus on the sensation.
Standing on wobbly feet I trudge down the slight decline to the base
Of my little hill, approaching the soccer ball with wet feet.
As if I cared.
My mind seemed to be stuck in this numb trance,
As even though I kicked the ball hard many times, things still
Seemed to be unreal.
Not happening
Fake.
Like a story.
This was useless.
All I’m doing is confirming that I am an impaired,
Twisted freak who doesn’t even recognize reality.
Going back up the hill I realize I had taken a flower
From the beautiful tree.
Back in the front, I crouched in a lawn chair, picking off the petals.
I bowed my head as a car drove by, peering through the gaps in my hair
In time to see the driver staring at me.
I thought about her going home that night to tell her husband
About the weird girl she saw sitting in her front yard at four in the morning.
What a freak she must think I am.
If only she knew how exactly right she was.
I tore off the last petal and slipped inside.
Briefly I contemplated going back to bad, but decided against it.
I wouldn’t be getting any sleep, just lying down in a stuffy room
Thinking about my regrets.
Instead I grabbed my laptop from the bed, on the off chance
That there had been a mistake.
People make mistakes all the time.
It could happen.
But there was no mistake.
Of course not.
Why would there be.
So, I did what I haven’t done in months.
I opened up Microsoft word.
And I started to write.
I’m just sitting here, crying.
Bleeding.
The sting on my arm doesn’t distract me from this grief.
The blade feels cool against my skin, as I run it over ever so gently,
Searching for a spare patch of pale skin not already covered by angry red cuts.
How frustrating.
Why didn’t I save some room for a time like this?
Cutting anywhere outside this limit would mean exposure to my habit.
Exposure to my habit, exposure to my mind.
No one knows.
Even I’m often confused by it.
The few who claim to understand, don’t understand anything.
How cowardly.
A few deep slits vertically and this all could be over.
I like to think the only reason I’m keeping myself here is for my mother.
But I know it’s because I am a coward.
Disgusting, ugly horrible coward I am.
I attack my arm in deep, angry slashes.
It doesn’t matter if I have already cut there.
As long as I cut.
I drop the blade with shaky hands, and slip into a long-sleeved shirt.
Seeing the gashes would hurt my mother more than they could ever hurt me.
Silencing my tears, I sneak outside.
Must get out of this stifling house, the walls caging me in.
A slight chill breezes through the 4am air, fresh and smelling of dew.
The sky a light gray-pink.
I step over the wet grass to the backyard.
Sitting on the little asphalt trail.
The draft cools my cheeks.
How odd.
Nothing had ever seen completely real to me,
But it seemed as I had such trouble believing that she was really dead,
Everything else seemed just as unreal.
The wind rustled the branches of my backyard forest.
My eyes rested on a tree that was green as a rose’s stem, with white pastel flowers.
How could I still find things beautiful?
Wasn’t death supposed to make everything seem gloomy and dilapidated?
My mind is an ugly, twisted thing.
The sting still lingering in my arm proved I could feel, but I couldn’t
Help but wonder if my sense of feeling was as impaired as my sight seemed to be.
I run my fingers over the springy moss.
I was feeling it, but I couldn’t focus on the sensation.
Standing on wobbly feet I trudge down the slight decline to the base
Of my little hill, approaching the soccer ball with wet feet.
As if I cared.
My mind seemed to be stuck in this numb trance,
As even though I kicked the ball hard many times, things still
Seemed to be unreal.
Not happening
Fake.
Like a story.
This was useless.
All I’m doing is confirming that I am an impaired,
Twisted freak who doesn’t even recognize reality.
Going back up the hill I realize I had taken a flower
From the beautiful tree.
Back in the front, I crouched in a lawn chair, picking off the petals.
I bowed my head as a car drove by, peering through the gaps in my hair
In time to see the driver staring at me.
I thought about her going home that night to tell her husband
About the weird girl she saw sitting in her front yard at four in the morning.
What a freak she must think I am.
If only she knew how exactly right she was.
I tore off the last petal and slipped inside.
Briefly I contemplated going back to bad, but decided against it.
I wouldn’t be getting any sleep, just lying down in a stuffy room
Thinking about my regrets.
Instead I grabbed my laptop from the bed, on the off chance
That there had been a mistake.
People make mistakes all the time.
It could happen.
But there was no mistake.
Of course not.
Why would there be.
So, I did what I haven’t done in months.
I opened up Microsoft word.
And I started to write.
