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?

Cherry blood is always good, because it's dark and it means no artery was hit. You're still alive. You're living. That's why I sometimes don't understand the big fuss my principal made when I took off the sweatband on my wrist. Or maybe it was the vice principal. Either way, the school counselor was called in, and so were my parents. Looks of shock. Confusion. Why? They all asked. But I had no reasonable answer. I was young and innocent -- a feeling I'd love to regain, but at the time, I wanted the opposite. Maybe I did it for the excitement; the thrill. Some said I was just "a troubled child"; it will pass. Others said I was "disturbed" or "depressed". But these are just words. I know what I was. I wanted the attention; I wanted to get caught, until it actually happened. After my mom paid a psychiatrist $350 three different times, I told her I was okay; I stopped doing it; Please don't make me go back. And she never made me go back. And I never did it again.

I want to feel that sweet kiss
   of the blade upon my wrist.

I want to hear that sweet whisper
   of my breath going hiss.

I want to see that sweet dance
   of the scarlet lines gone amiss.

I want to taste that sweet embrace
   of my guilt going tisk, tisk, tisk.

Do you ever get that feeling
Like you want to die
But you're afraid to die
All the pain that they're giving
Is the feeling you want to end
but killing the pain will be your end