While I write you this note,
My blood seems to pour,
My tears smudge make-up,
And then drop to the floor.
While I write you this note,
I fight off the urge,
To cut and to hurt,
But the need starts to surge.
While I write you this note,
Their words start to sting,
I want to feel blood,
And the relief it will bring.
While I write you this note,
The urge makes me itch;
Make one final cut,
That can not be stitched.
While I write you this note;
My final goodbye,
I pick up my knife,
And wish life to fly.
YOU ARE READING
The Poetry Box
Poetry"Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash." ~Leonard Cohan. So, this is just the 'ash' of my life. The muddled thoughts I've formed into words and verses, rhymes and lines. Some may be pitifully bad...
