The young girl is an artist
But the story has a twist
A razor is her paintbrush
And the canvas is her wrist
She paints a tale of sorrow
Of desperation and of dread
She fights a daily struggle
Just to clamber out of bed
Self-hatred running through her veins
Just waiting to escape
As crimson floods her tattered limbs
The artwork takes its shape
A portrait of her sorrow
A display upon her skin
Yet it’s her deadly little secret
Inner battles she can’t win
The damage has been done
So ask no questions of her scars
She’s fighting her worst enemy
Confined by mental bars
A prison in her mind
Thoughts that consume her being whole
Battle wounds remind her
Of her slowly fading soul
One day the paint shall run too red
The brush will dig too deep
The art is now completed
The artist now can sleep
But do not blame yourself, my friend
For nothing can be done
The girl with razor clutched in hand
Is doomed right from day one
~creepy, i know. whatever.
You have the right to love
And be loved as well
The right to, not just break, but
Shatter from your shell
Run free, run proud
Sing to me and sing it loud
Slacks and dresses spinning and twirling,
Backs and arms bending and curling
Dance like the puppets do
Not seeing the strings touching you
~sorry for the poetry spam but i’ve been dying to publish these and i’ve neglected this blog for a while, so…yeah.
I believe
In attachments;
Like sitting in a chair,
Smoking and drinking
While thinking about stuff;
And I believe
In sleep and laziness;
And I don’t particularly like
Purity or wholesomeness,
And I don’t even
Exactly practice
Moderation.
So I guess that makes
Human.
And I am a good human,
Even if maybe I’m not.
~written by moi.
