untitled

this is a sad kind of poem. i dont cut myself, but that is what this is about. i used to.

life is not worth living,
a party of solitude and despair,
when your only escape,
your one way out,
your salvation and your savior,
is in the form of a rusted blade.
drag it once upon your skin,
slice it up twice more
incise it there upon your flesh
just to really feel
wounds are opened, never cured
out pour the pain, blood and tears
an empty state of such raw bliss
feelings and hurt come rushing out
you've found a way to grasp
something this sole act can do.
just once more, but you don't stop,
you know you never will.
it's something you control.
feel the power, the anguish, the hurt
ecstasy sweeps over
clears your mind
what a relief