I'll never forget the night of the first,
The cut that began my downward spin.
It wasn't like I was innocent,
That's what I thought at least.
Grabbed a pocket knife and no one knew,
The painfully pleasure I put myself through.
With every slide of the blade,
I felt the little boy slipping away.
He was scared of dying,
Yet didn't fight his death.
The child was dying,
But who was coming next.
This creature,
This monster,
This hideous beast,
It wasn't a beauty to say the least.
Upon his arms were lines of red,
He looked upon them and then he said,
"I wonder just how many more,
Cuts it takes to bleed no more"
YOU ARE READING
Who is He?
PoetryA look inside my tattered mind. All of these are original poems written by me in various moods of my life.
