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'Failing t-t o'
She has 1 regret before she closes her eye's forever, 2 night, she wishes she could take back that moment after she found that razor blade, she shoulda burned that bottle of sleeping pills and never filled the tub up with that water. Well now it's a lil too late, and she can't stay awake, Everyone that promised to be her savior turned out a lil too fake, She can't lift her head now and yet she can still feel the pain where she cut her vein with the **** old blade. Yet she still feels the same, cold and all alone but her rhymes are failing to: my rhymes are failing t-t o
~SacredInkedBlood same as  
Author Ven J. Author.
VenJencie Clifton Arnold
Please know there is help for you if you can ) to this poem at all. It never has to end this way for anybody.
Click on any link below and *** does love you. You are worthy and you are good enough but just get help to realize it yourself and to get help to act on it. Blessings to you al
Suicide Shatters Families
Suicide Prevention Awareness
Jordan Miller Sep 13
My razer goes swift and sharp
As it runs across my arm i feel a bit of pain
It the only thing i can feel somedays
the blood comes out crimson red
Then the wounds scar and i start again
For all those people who would tell me to stop self harm because " its dangerous" I say so should we not cook because its dangerous and we can get burned And when people says its bad because its not normal, your saying that im bad because im different. isint that what the whits said to the blacks and the nazis to the jews.
She never minded the scars I carved.
She'd beg me for more, and as her wrists were tied in knots.
I'd make sure another night was never forgot.
Sure, she'd struggle, much as any of us must.
But she was lurching toward me wild and bewildered such.

She would calm as I tended wound and her panting
below became a parting of bloom. Springtime crept
in like a slow, low light on a horizon only meant
to be seen by us two.

Her struggle turned to sound and her mouth stuffed still.
Her lids heavy hiding stained glass eye windowed sill.
Her knees buckled with belt tied firm to keep her tight.
Her smile crept wide as tongue wetted what kept words inside.

Her drool ran and stained our sheets,
her eyes filled with tears which ran down cheeks.
Pleasing pleadings strung out by Morse code taps of her feet.
She was more than a canvas,
she became my tapestry.
the girl was impatient so she opened her drawer;
pulled out her old razor to bust the **** on the floor.
I skipped lunch
Destiny C Jun 22
My presence is a burden.
The world has no room for a worthless body,
breathing but not mentally present-
each ****** of the razor,
slowly relieving me-
each drop of blood taking my burden off of someone's shoulders.
I was never meant to be here,
so I know the end is almost near.
This pain I feel inside,
sits right next to where emptiness resides.
Some live beautiful lives,
But me, I know I'm meant to die.
Fine,
if a bitter wind blows

Fine,
if a liar arrives

on my patio
hard heart
worn
right
with the
knuckle
skin

Fine,
pressed on the razor's edge
(grinning ear to ear as if I wanted it)

Fine,
when what was once the worst
(grinning ear to ear as if I wanted it)

returns to a placid place
below,
so

a new threat may
emerge
Amy Perry Jun 7
I've found myself on the razor's edge,
Like a figure skater.
I skate through life,
Avoiding hazards with grace,
Holding my head up high,
And spinning out of control
Once in a while,
Only to collect myself
In poised determination
And a flick of the wrist,
Brushing the worries away.
Accidental paper cuts is where it starts.
You swiftly open your pink diary to write about the boy you fell in love with at recess.
It stings. Blood slowly drips. It stings. It’s so sudden and unwarranted.
You **** the blood and put a bandage on your finger and you write about your elementary school lover.

Drawn hearts around their names, or putting your first name in front of their last, it’s all your secrets.

They will never know.


You grow fast into middle school, where you encounter your first real heartbreak.
You once again swiftly open your pink diary out of heart broken tears falling from your eyes.
It stings. Blood slowly drips. It stings. It’s so sudden and unwarranted.
You **** the blood from your finger and put a bandage over your heart.

Scribble out the hearts, rip out his last name, cry silently into your pillow so no one can hear. Put on a mask in the morning until you are better. It’s all your secrets.

They will never know.


Fast forward to high school. Everyone is divided and different. People you once knew are once again memories. Lonesome days roaming hall ways. You tell yourself you’re used to it, but your mind thinks otherwise.
Once again, you swiftly open your pink diary to write about your boring day.
It stings. Blood slowly drips. It stings. It’s so sudden and unwarranted.
You **** the blood and put...
and p-...
and...
...
Put a razor against your skin.

Swiftly gliding it from left to right.
It stings. Blood slowly drips. It stings. It’s...

Amazing and exhilarating.

More. More. More.

Watch as I tear my arms into woven red spiderwebs.
Watch as I unravel this old bandage on my heart.
Watch as I show my vulnerability for just a moment.
I cant stop. I cant st op. The bleeding is n t stop ping.
I  c a n ' t  s t o-...
You put the razor down and look at the drips. you wash it off, throw away the bandages, put a sweater on and fall asleep. It's all your secrets.

They will never know.

It becomes a routine. Your pink diary begins to turn gray from dust. It doesn't help anymore. They put you on medications and therapy appointments, but you only get satisfaction opening your paper thin skin and watch as the lines well into pools of blood.

Drip.              
                 Drip.
   Drip.    

The sting in your arms is the only thing you can feel now. No one sees, it's all your secrets.

They will never know.

Never know...
What it's like to have this destructive addiction.
You see, I lied.
I knew the difference between paper cuts and razor blades when I was still learning long division.
It stopped being accidental after the first paper cut.
It began to be about glass shards on pale scrawny arms.
It began to be about long sleeves and pants instead of dresses.
It began to be about making excuses after excuses.

It's all my secrets.
They will never know.

... Never know until I cut one too many times.
Never know until my sleeves slide down my arms.
Never know until I puncture a vein.
Never know until I'm clinging onto lifeless pain.

It was all my secrets.
But eventually they knew.

They knew when pill bottles began to quickly empty.
They knew sweater weather was 6 months ago.
They knew the light in my eyes began to dim.
They knew I was suffering.

But I pushed them out.
Slammed the door and pulled down the sleeves.
Put on smiles and laugh like they do on TV.

Like an innocent child hiding paper cuts under bandages.
Growing into a ******* who finds solace in a razor.
Laughing at each tear that falls from my mother's face.
Door slams that just echo in my chest.
Digging more into my skin so I can just be put to rest.
This sweet, silent suffering is covered by a facade made of smiles.
But I still wince once in awhile.
It's just the cuts that rub against my inner side of my sleeves.

Reminding me of my dark thoughts.
Reminding myself of my weaknesses.
Reminding me of feeling something other than this numb orb,
that gnaws into every cell, ever nerve.
Up and down my arm until I feel the stinging static feeling.

Then I know it's time,
to start once again.
...
and...
It was all my secrets.
They weren't supposed to know.
I recently relapsed because I wanted to feel something. Can't say I regretted it.
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