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Relate Articles:

I am thirteen months clean
from a crimson red blade,
but honestly I still think
about why my physical scars
just had to go away.

I self-harmed to rid my feeble life
from emotional scars with an acute knife.
I was addicted for over five years.
Self-harm was my drug of choice.
Starting as an eleven year old
with eyes made of nothing but tears.

Finally through poetry I have an escape.
It became my voice
especially since to hear it is so scarce.

Using this avenue
I am learning each day to push on through
giving my hands something else to do.
Poetry has given me an outlet.
Not just the darkness that still tries to fight,
but an outlet for my voice
that is ready to soar to brand new heights.

Longing for convulsions and cacophony
The brain desires outlet-
Outlet for the hopelessness of mortality
Against knowledge of disappearance amongst you
And the ultimate disappearancs of one self
Which keeps you voiceless- a prisoner to your dying flesh
Without an outlet for the hopelessness of mortality
And thus hopelessness of mortality becomes an outlet of the captivated mind