A shield is carefully crafted,
Linking and weaving scars together to protect the bruised heart inside.
A shield is not a painted piece of polished protection.
A shield is the last resort, a desperate attempt to grip onto life,
Which is but a fragile skein of thread,
that quickly unravels and easily snaps in two.
The bruised heart is not hiding behind this armor.
A poor heart that has suffered at the abuse of the outside world,
Is simply trying to preserve itself from decaying.
If the battered heart is not secured behind its shield,
The deterioration of the muscle begins and the heart slowly fades away
In an revolting and repulsive death,
Unless the world is merciful and a spear is plunged through the heart
before it can succumb to a lethargic and dreadful death.
The heart avoids its fate,
Skirting around pain and skipping away from death.  
Through as the shield of scars becomes lame and worn,
The poor heart begins to wonder,
Would death really be so unfavorable,
If death meant it wouldn't have to live like this anymore?

Sometimes I wonder if you still think of me
I’d like to think I was important enough for you to remember
But a part of me knows that I was just temporary entertainment
A part of me knows that I was but a pest
You let live a while longer than the rest
So you have moved on with your life,
You’ve probably found a new toy to entertain you by now,
And I am sitting in your dust,
Wondering if you’ll ever come back for me.

Poetry has become my self harm,
I only write at my lows...
Instead of blood I see words,
Instead of a blade I have a keyboard...

I want to write about...
The wind dancing with the sea...
Or...
The way you smile and it lights up your innocent face...

I don't want poetry to be my self harm,
Because poetry is beautiful...
An art...
Not.
Just.
Blood.
And.
Scars.

I watched her play with a knife last night.
It twirled beneath her fingers,
letting the moonlight glint off of the metal devilishly.
It seemed tempting.
Something so elegant couldn't possibly cause such desperate violence.
Something so refined couldn't possibly cause such dreadful wreckage.

I watched her play with a knife last night.
It tapped upon her desk,
creating invisible scars that cut deeper into the wood each week.
It seemed ridiculous.
She could simply put down the knife and she wouldn't be in pain.
She could simply put down the knife and her scars could heal.

I picked up the knife last night.
It darted between my fingers,
daringly darting and narrowly missing the edges of my skin.
If I slipped, I could be just as scarred as she is.
If I slipped, I could finally feel something other than fear.

Oops.