The English vice,
Some Etonian curse –
Set down in grass
And purple verse,

Lavatory bred
With ransacked blood,
Skin slapping and
With a falling thud –

Takes boys at childhood,
Wishes them away,
With promises of popper fuelled buffets,

And poisons them with
Vice and virus red,
And sees them unmarried
Giving head.

I don’t regret a single thing I am,
I’ve tried it out
And can’t abide the sham –

I’ll **** men
And make them beg for more,
I’ll scrabble for their love upon the floor,

I’ll love men
And love will love me too,
I’ll love for love’s own sake
And when I’m through

I’ll die and I’ll be thankful that your hate
Never made me beg that I was straight.

Welcome to my personal Hell.
I hope your visit will go well.

Everyday, right in my eyes,
They look at me as if they despise.

Up to your left you will see,
A list of why they all have hated me.

Why is it blank?
I don't know.
Maybe it was just meant to be so.

They laugh and jeer,
*******'re such a queer.

They made me cry,
Hopefully I'll die.

Years and years,
But no-one hears.

Stick and stones
Break your bones,
But words can breaks a heart.

Why is it me?
You could see,
Am I small and weak?

Maybe they hate me because the outside defies,
The inside they so despise,

My strength scares,
My words that tear,

The weapon of choice?
Always my voice.

They asked for it,
Challenged my sharp wit.

They attacked and provoked,
As they cruelly joked.

I defended myself,
You better watch yourself.

My walls I have built,
Much to my guilt.

The friends I have hurt,
The words I still blurt.

My friends don't deserve my hate,
My only permanent trait.

I could just not talk,
Enforce my walls with bedrock.

To hide the real me,
Since no-one cares to see.

They look at me as if they despise,
Everyday, right in my eyes.

I hope your visit went Hell,
You can always take my place in My Personal Hell

Like silk the waves swallow me,
An endless abyss of silence.

Like a waterfall in the spring,
The water is crashing above me.

Like the sea water in my mouth,
My lungs burn for sweet air.

Like the soft glow of an ocean sunset,
My consciousness dissappears.

Like a tide falling,
I no longer exist.

They just look like paper cuts, only skin deep.

The paper cuts are of a reminder of crying myself to sleep.



They just look like paper cuts, imprinted on my arm.

Too bad these paper cuts are caused by my self harm.



They just look like paper cuts, whispers of stinging hurt.

Hurt that is easily hidden by a long sleeve shirt.



They just look like paper cuts, barely there to stay.

Too bad these paper cuts will never go away.



They just look like paper cuts, but why do they scar?

It's because these paper cuts are much deeper by far.