I slipped up.
I slit cuts.
I didn't mean to.
I drew blood.

I read online
When I was probably just 14 or 15 years old
That most people don't stop until their 20's
And it scared me
But I thought
"No, I'll stop right now"

But I didn't.
I couldn't.

I slipped up.
I slit cuts.
I didn't mean to.
I drew blood.

And now that I'm older
It hurts more to try to hide it
And now that I have people that care about me
Often times they don't understand why this part of my life is still relevant
And all I can say to make them understand is

I slipped up.
I slit cuts.
I just had to.
I drew blood.

Never fall in love with a poet
for their words are sometimes lies
on occasions they're a shield
on occasions a disguise

They will take you on a journey
upon which they bare their soul
in a bid to ease your burdens
in a bid to make you whole

But in every word they choose
for the stories that they tell
lies a little piece of heaven
and a little piece of hell

Tormented souls we poets are
sometimes quite broken and despaired
in search of lost expressions
missed by others who once cared

Never fall in love with a poet
unless you're prepared to share their pain
to hold them close on the darkest nights
over and again

I had to talk another person
out of it last night.
When will the world learn
Not to encourage such behavior?

I have often been criticized for my seeming lack of motivation and drive
But I am content with celebrating beauty as it enters the world
And mourning the same beauty as it leaves this world.