Perfect little lines
Perfect little marks
Perfect little spots of blood
Perfect.

Power is a wicked thing
Tears us, rips us to shreds.
A dream from which we can not awake
daily struggle try to cope
Never working, just give up.
Give it all up, cause it will
Tear you, rip you to shreds.
Suffer through, never bow to
The causes and reasons
That threaten you.

of red
cascade down
the slippery *****
from perfectly straight
rivers of blood
all in neat little rows
they musn't see
hidden under long sleeves
never daring
to show the scars
they think that it's a call for attention
but rather, the pain that I feel inside
translated to flesh and blood
eases the mental war