He doesn't burn photographs
He doesn't join therapy sessions
He doesn't smoke too many cigarettes
Nor he drown himself into alcohol
He scratches his wounds daily
And never let them heal
He doesn't try to get rid of the pain
Instead he let it grow on him
He waters the seed of sorrow with his tears
He feeds it with the manure of old memories
He takes it to sleep with him
And nurtures it in himself
Till the moment when every single drop of his blood gets replaced by this pain
Until his fragile heart can bear no more
And his soul starts overflowing with emotions
That's when he dip his pen into this pain
And empty his heart on a piece of paper
He bares his soul for us to feel
He creates poetry that the world would cherish for centuries to come

ode to you,
your walk.
talk.
laugh
smile.
secrets.
there's not much I don't like about you.
you talk with a raspy after tone,
your hair is not greasy
but shiny.
your love is well-cherished.
your touch is well-remembered.
un-forgettable.
your smile.
its overwhelming.
i forget how to think,
when you look at me.
ode  to you.
even though,
you crushed my heart
with your foot,
lied to me you "love me"

you are my vampire.
the blood that falls off,
drips from the slits on my wrist
or cuts on my thighs.
you cause them.
you drive your sharp teeth into me,
and level marks.
my heart with puncture wounds.
your vangs are the
nightmare
of my days.

scissors are for paper?
That's a toddler's favor.
Mine is scissors, a razor.
and these lines, my scars.
on the paper, my arms.

donnt mention my thighs,
but see thats 'different' right?
its not. I'm still cutting arent I?
and even with the doors closed they still know.
for it reeks of blood dripping off my leg
thirsty for a vampire's vang.
you can check me all day
but you'll never see the dark
inside or me.
for I cut it out so no one will see,
so that ill just be happy.

i'll cut,
not one by two.
maybe even three.
ill cut so deep
not even the doctors
can reach.
and I promise not to.
ill promise ill stop.
but I've not,
its an addiction.
its like ****,
but mines a razor.
It's like ***,
but mines my skin.
ill promise I've quit.
but not even close.
this
is uncontrollable.
a need or pull towards me.
maybe a hobby,
like drawing but my canvas
my wrist.

every poem has a sheet
over it,
protecting life from its deeper meaning.
i will not do that,
I will let this world know what it does
to the people.
my friend took His
to save mine.
the world pushed me down
into a hole.
But my friend
pulled me out.
still I ran away,
toward the world.
everytime, He was there.
by my side.