Scratching at my arms,
Pulling at nothing.
Trying to fix wounds,
That I'm causing.
I feel the pain,
But it's "fixing" imperfections.
The blood isn't visible,
To my blind insurrection.
Each move of my hand,
The deeper in it gets.
Not close enough to bond,
Pulling at my tendons in distress.
Deeper on in,
I pass out with no vision.
A light at the end of a tunnel,
Tinted red with bloody trouble.
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.
