Don't have children
Just to beat
and abuse them.
Smother them with unconditional love.
Fair discipline
To correct and grow good and sound character.
Nexus 1d
Isn't it funny how his blood smells like his blade.
It must be the metal, quantum level the same.
Every possibility in time lead to this line.
A faceless man writing this rhyme.
In a world so messed up he thinks it's his fault.
Turning to drugs, he lost all his hope.
And now sits alone worrying how to cope.
Can't stop smoking dope.
He never visioned he'd be happy,
And it shows.
-Nexus
The results are undeniable,
My fears are justifiable.
I know you mean no harm,
But I’m a sucker for your charm.
I mean, on paper, you’re ideal,
But I’m already losing what is real.
I’m tripping over words inside my head.
I don’t know what should be left unsaid.
Polite smiles are well and good
But I would scream if only I could.
I feel my demons scratch my tongue,
Trying to silence what I’ve become.
I’m running out of space inside my mind,
I just can’t be who I left behind.
I am honest and I am strong.
So why does that now feel so wrong?
And I know freedom isn’t free
But I’m begging you not to break me.
A little box
Without a key
You hold an air
Of mystery
To sit and glare
Right up there
Flashing red in front of me

I am the one who fills it
And I fill it with myself
No one would guess what's in you
Sitting up atop my shelf

I have thought of your discovery
The pros
And all the cons
But looking at my history
All candidates are wrong

So I suppose you'll stay a secret
I'll keep you to myself
Painted red,
Flashing dread
Little box on my shelf
Please forget you saw this
This is an ode to the unwanted.
To those who are rejected
regardless of how hard they try.
To the people who know the feeling
of being stabbed in the back all too well.
To anyone whose pain was so overwhelming that
they became isolated.
This is for the girl in my twelfth
grade class who told me she cut herself.
To the boy who got beat up on the playground
almost everyday in elementary school.
I never imagined that I would become you one day.
That I would be so mentally paralyzed and
resort to cutting my skin.  
Or so hated that people attacked me in every way.
I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.
I regret to say that I made you feel unwanted.
If you’re like me, maybe death was the solution
to your problems, but even that didn’t save me.
It turns out, if you’re broken enough, even
death doesn’t want you
Is there any true bliss for the unwanted,
or do we all pay the price?
Tonight I took a risk
And once again sliced my wrists
But instead of five I did ten
And little blood came out when
I pressed a little harder
And the blade cut a little farther
I looked like a tiger with it’s stripes
And I’m willing to face all the gripes
You’ll probably leave me when you see my scars
Because you’ll realize all the harm
It stings a little but still feels good
You didn’t understand and you never would
You can’t handle a basket case
To you I’m just a waste
Let’s see how they look tomorrow
Because tonight they filled me with sorrow
They didn’t bleed like I’d hope
Maybe next time I’ll try the rope
I’m a screw up and don’t deserve life
I argue with myself about what to do and with which knife
I lay here now wrists stinging
The sandman with sleep he’s bringing
I’m upset at myself more than you are at me
So don’t yell or use harsh words during your plea
I’m sorry for what I’ve done
There is nothing more I can do, none
Maybe it’s more than ten
I stopped counting around then
You’ll leave me tomorrow I know it
Whether or not I refuse to show it
The scars will still remain
And you’ll think of me with cruel disdain
Hate me for all I care
This heavy cross I’ll always bare
Give me another reason to hate my soul and body
Give me another bad habit to proclaim as a hobby
I’m an artist by nature and I paint with my blood
And when I’m done my sharp edged paint brush will drop with a thud
I don’t care anymore and I wish life was simpler
I suppose T.S Elliot was correct: this is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but a whimper
Jay 5d
Draw me a circle
Draw me a beautiful circle
Make it any size
Make it perfect

It can’t have bumps
It can’t have wiggles
Make it any size
Make it perfect

Use your own special compass
Use your own special parchment
Make it any size
Make it perfect

Keep retracing the circle
Keep retracing the feeling
Keep retracing the steps you took

Draw me a beautiful circle
Draw me a scarlet circle
Make it any size
Make it perfect
Keep retracing the skin until you find
What you’re looking for
I wrote this about a week ago, on self harm. One of my really high achieving, perfectionist friends told me a story of how they would use the compass they had gotten in geometry class to doodle on themselves, and the pain would help them feel less anxious. It got me thinking and I suppose this is what I ended up with
Trust
And tryst
And slit your wrist
As he lies
While you cry
Increase your meds and you’ll be fine
But trust
Whilst he lusts
After other sluts.
And he lies
While you cry
And give your heart and soul
Simply trying
To make him smile.
But he’ll destroy you
All the while.
Oh sickly poisonous flame
Darting back and forth
I hear you call my name
It's not what they think, for what it's worth

One slip of the finger
And a tingling sensation
Smells of gas linger
Now for use of personification:

Its seems that you love me
For you never let me go
I feel pitiful in your embrace
And it seems that you know

You always take control
And oh how I'm fascinated by your flame
Skin swells and pain holds
In this endless torture game
Starlight Jul 10
War
She wore her bandaids like badges.

Were they badges of honour or badges of shame?

She fears them pulling up her sleeves, all the way to the shoulders, brushing the neck, for she only scratches there...

So they won't find them.

She wonders time and time again why she does what she does.

'Perhaps I am cursed' she screams out to the world, as if it were a question and not a statement which keeps ringing in her head.

She tries to tell someone, tries to articulate what she means, tries to summon up the courage.

But uncertainty and that throbbing in her shoulder lie in wait, in the form of butterflies in her stomach and a lion purring painfully in her heart.

'Do not roar' she whimpers over and over, 'Please do not say anything' she tells herself, even when she wants to speak.

She must be quiet.

So as not to awaken doubt, so as not to force others to think differently upon her, so as not to let herself be boxed in.

'But what if I want those boxes for protection?' she tries to reason with herself, but stubborness is a disease that reeks of pausing after stubbed toes to see if it is the same feeling.

Is it the same if she hurts herself by accident? Could she have
hurted herself by accident?

'I do not want self harm to write who I am' she cries unnecesarily to the sky, so blue and taunting it twinkles to her, so endless unlike her fraying and drying self.

'Do not harm yourself then' it says, as if it were that easy, as if pain and memories and shame and the need to not think haven't already corrupted her soul.

Why is she shivering?

Why can't she breathe?

'I am possessed' she reassures herself. It is not her fault that she has been taken by a demon she cannot control.

It is not her fault that she is so weak.

She says that she is possessed, not that she feels she is possessed, for she can think of no other reason for her insanity.

'I love you' god calls to her.

She is not sure which god she should pray to, not sure where she
can let her disbelief and absolution lie. How can she know what to believe in when she has surely lost belief in herself.

'Can I give up on science?' she longs to let the non-existence control her life. If only there were rules for her life.

Will they blame her?

In the end she knows they won't. Not the ones who should be listened to anyway.

Yet she continues to torture herself for reasons that are out of her grasp.

Insanity has never been her salvation, but neither has it been her reckoning.

'I am broken' she argues when someone tells her that she should
stop, that her skin is beautiful, that scratching it is only futile.

She realises it is her own conscience.

There is a dark part of her that wishes she would not heal, so she would not have to replace the marks which disappear.

'I am broken' she repeats, wondering if someone is listening to her when she speaks to empty air.

She knows they aren't.
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