My body littered with scars,
Some do it to punish,
Some do it to feel something,
Anything.
It feels good to feel something,
Anything.
Some find ways to stop,
They never truly stop.
They need to feel something,
Anything.

The punishment,
Mental torture turning into thin red lines.
There's no one to punish me anymore,
So who should?
I look around
And see
Me.

Why do I **** up every time
I bring trouble everywhere
No matter what
Trouble finds me
It haunts me
Always
No matter what i do
It will never change
That's how my life works
Why was i born?
Why am I here?
Do i need to stay?
Cant this pain just go away?
It's always the same
Day in and day out
It'll never change
That's how my life is
If I cut well that change anything?
No
It will cause regret
But i need to
I know it won't help but I deserve it

I wrote suicide notes like love letters,
Maybe a bit too much.
Maybe a bit too often,
With those depressing words and such.

I wrote suicide notes like love letters,
Carefully chose every word.
Desperately trying to tell you,
That to me you meant the whole world.

I wrote suicide notes like love letters,
It almost felt like a crime.
Put my pen down like a weapon,
And glance at you one last time.

I think too much
it hurts too much
so I clean it all out with soap
but
       the
             soap
                       burns
and the pain hurts so comfortably

I will never
hide
my story.
perhaps
a warning,
or a precaution of what not
to do.
but frankly,
I wouldn’t change much.
It really did make me stronger.
allowed me more empathy,
let me see
into a little
bit of horror
others go through.

don’t you dare
judge scars,
be grateful
you’ve been
trusted
with their
story.

Scars fading away,
Along with the memories
Of the hurt and decay,
The endless stories,
Coming back fresh,
Regaining their life on paper,
Carving into the flesh,
Disappearing later.

i want to leave not because
the world is too much,
but i am.
dancing in the sunshine,
singing in the rain,
smiling as if my life is brilliant.
my outside life if pretty perfect,
but the inside is rusty.
too many cracks and snags,
too many broken pipes, fractured beams
to be useful
anymore.
you wouldn’t use a vase that can’t hold water,
so why use a life that can’t hold joy?

what a blessing for a writer,
to suffer.

adds validity,
better to speak
from experience
than imagination.
see, fiction writers
write to escape.
us poets?
we write
to release.

ink allows us
to bleed
onto
perfect plain paper pages,
our true canvas.
a ‘healthier’
way
to bleed.

perhaps
it’s because
they don’t see
the wounds words leave.
never experienced
that punch to the
gut, i’m sure,
from
one
single
line.

does that make them lucky?
i’m unsure.
perhaps it suggests
they’ve never
been that
misunderstood,
neglected,
lonely,
as to where words
are their only friends.
on the other hand,
they’ve never known
the pure
bliss
that is
understanding.
sweet, sour
relief.

those of us
that have experienced
it,
we long to feel it
again.
so we write,
to understand ourselves,
and hopefully,
help others do the same.