In the hour
between sheep and wolf
with your words
in my skin
and my soul
My hand trembles
at the sight I see before me.
My face damaged
from the expectations of society.
My body bruised and scarred
from every ounce of derision inflicted upon me.
Not only is it a corruption of appearance,
but a corruption of the soul.
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.
Welcome to the execution of my mind
Let's open it up and see what we find
Hand me a light it's so very dark inside
The agony seems to be amplified
In here it's so very far from bliss
The demons are starting to hiss
Watch out the blackness is starting to seep out
The sorrow is starting to pour and spout
We must hurry now or we will become infected
Buy what has been inflicted
Killing this poisonous mind we must
To save all of us
"She is a crybaby.
Downpouring in her flesh and glory.
Self inflicted in her catastrophes."
I don't believe you.
I don't subscribe to your thoughts
and the words that trickle out
of your head, to fall ******
on the pavement and disappear
down the gutter when
the rain comes.
I hope the rain comes soon.
A raging, rampant monsoon
to flood me dry and clean away
the raw, red finger-prints your diction
imprinted, a blood-red necklace ringing my throat.
I don't care for your intonation.
You, heedless of the power
of speeches simple sounds that decimate
veins and rupture explosive, ebony vessels,
setting me adrift on Moses' sea.
But, despite all, I reply in kind.
careless words leave me;
cutting you open.
There's a new kid in school.
A year later
I meet him,
He hasn't any friends,
The students avoid him.
"Why do they avoid you?" I ask.
"I'm different." That said,
he pulls up his sleeves,
tiny scars across his arms.
My scars remind me of many things…
Some I want to remember and others I want to forget.
I am pure to the truth but I swell in regret.
Shame, pain, triumph, strength… scars represent.
There are no badges to wear;
I have no pride to hide.
I am not a product of the stories;
I refuse to be a prisoner of my descents.
The past is often forgotten...
Memories distort beyond recognition.
Scars will fade, darken, stretch and shrink.
But the deep ones stay; I still can’t forget.
Emotions dissipate... or so I thought.
But now I believe they simply hide
beneath layers of damaged skin...
keeping those scars painfully alive.
It isn’t protection; it isn’t healing.
No badge I’ll wear; no pride I’ll find.
Yes, these scars are mine…
But I am not my scars! And my scars are not yours.
To some, I am marked for life;
I cannot control their stereotypes.
I **** them and their forced opinions!
They thrive on my scars; they try to create new wounds.
Sometimes, I let you see my scars… but I am far from naïve.
I know I am giving you a temptation and a tool.
Don’t try to own me… you are a fool to think you know me.
The why, when, and how is my personal mystery.
I won’t let you look beyond the fragments;
Deep below the layered scars hides my truth.
I will not allow you entry; I am still afraid.
Self-inflicted wounds are far more acceptable.
I do not wish for more scars…
to add to my repertoire.
I do not wish for more adversaries…
to shove me back into the ground.
My past is mine and mine alone; it remains a part of me.
But despite the spite I feel…
My past is not my present; my past is not my future.
And it certainly is NOT any of your business.
When living with addiction, you focus your time and effort on your next fix. I wish that this was fiction, but its a sickness that your stricken with.
This habits self inflicted, behind your smile your suffering. You hate your life and feel numb inside, from the shame you bare as punishment.
Why do you entertain the thought of suicide, for the position you put your self in. When your depression stems from low self worth, yet your still injecting hopelessness.
Stop looking for a permanent solution, to a temporary problem. Is your life so bad that the only feeling you know is pain, or is it guilt from the thrill you get, as you search, for the perfect vain.
You say you've finally had enough, your fed up and its time for change. But its a vicious cycle with mental strain, because tomorrow came and remained the same.
Poem by:KLoyal Est:07-2014