Anyone,
Can make poetry.
But it takes a soul,
To make a poet's dreams.

Through darkest nights,
and gloomy days.
Thou shall send me,
On my way.

In the slump
Of the dread
Of the mist
That's filling my head

I wish I could be the optimist,
Happy and care-free
Trying to miss
I've changed, not in a good way.

Do you see me,
Outside the Library.
Or in the School halls?
Do i carry a knife, To add to my strife.

Try to splat my blood on the walls,
Do i look like,
A suicidal freak?
Or am I suddenly, just very meek?

Kids in our day and age,
Immature and Happy faze.
Shouting " Not fair "
To a week-off social media.

Am i one to seem?
To scrape the knife
Over my skin,
To make me bleed?

Do I look like
Someone who loves
Sight of blood
Taste and shroud.

Appearances are deceiving
To my make-believing,
That everything will be alright.
Cut my tongue, taste the blood.

I worship my knife.
It smells like my blood,
Tastes like it too.
Love it, I do.

In the darkness, gloomy depths
If you could see my mind.
You'd see the secrets I hide.
Would you be shocked?