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sample:
I press the pen down firmly.
Observe, as dark red ink begins to rise,
Emerging thick, beneath the nib.
And, scoring now insistently,
Deep, straight lines cross my canvas,
Intently watched by vacant eyes.
So beautiful!
Above, I see myself below again,
Crying.
This is All Too Much.
The soft and fragile page beneath my pen
So aware, of that first touch.
Hey kids, it's time once more to write some messages.
(I'm not sure where I m sending them.)
So many of them upon my wrist,
In straight lines only I can read.
That deeper one, carved when I was pissed.
So strangely calming, watching myself bleed.
Outwardly peaceful happy and content;
Those many faces we project.
Yet just inside, beneath the skin, the world's lament,
And now Engraved, these signs of lack of self respect.
I wonder how they re not like me.
The other people.
I cannot grasp the difference of their lives.
No knowledge of the things I see.
Those other people.
No pressing need to cut themselves with knives.
So don't talk to me about
Mutilations.
Don't you tell me it's a sin.
These carnal cuts without,
Manifestations
Of deeper mental cuts within.
Of course, we know this language. It's clear enough to read.
The scars some inner damage; some deep unfulfilled need.
Yet few can really understand the words, composed in vain,
A dark red cross behind my hand reflects a hidden pain.
Once more I run the blade across my bruised and tender arm,
I contemplate this price I've paid to keep myself from serious harm.
And yet
Is it so bad? Small outlets of anguish like this?
This must be better than bottling it all up, surely.
And letting it all go at once.
Then something bad might happen.
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