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.
![](https://img.wattpad.com/cover/33453985-288-k607195.jpg)
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...