As you walk the halls, you wonder,
''Does anyone care at all?''
you run to the stall and look at your wrist ''I'm just so sick of this''
You grab the blade you carry everyday ''No one will care, I wont be missed''
you drag it down, the blood hits the ground
''my, I love that sound''
a pudle forms and you hear a sound,
its your body as you fall down
the farmillar 'clink' from you dropping your blade,
''I hope im not alive the next day''
YOU ARE READING
a cutting poem-insecutity kills
PoetryPlease don't juge me for this. Cutting isnt for attention, and im not trying to get it. This is just some stuff I write through out the day and guys gals people of the world if you need some help im here. I wont juge you. So yea, hope you enjoy
