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BMG Jun 2018
My scars tell a story
Of the person that existed before you
Before the person I am now
They explain how I become
Who I am today
Reminders of my past

I may not talk about them
That doesn’t mean
I am ashamed of them
I may not explain why
That doesn’t mean
I don’t remember each time

I use to be someone
That needed each scar
I use to be someone
That couldn’t fight back
Fragile little girls grow up
Forces to be reckoned with

Just because I carry my past
For you to see
On my arms
On my thighs
Doesn’t mean
you have a right to my story
Does not mean you know
Where I have been

You see a faded delicate red line
You can’t see it still alive within me
I use to rely on those sharp edges
Rely on the pain it brought me
I still rely on sharp edges
Now they exist within me
Danielle May 2018
She worked upon their minds,
Using sharply hooked fears
And soft feathered wings,
To whisper insidious desires
Into their hearts and minds.
With the bait laid, rotting in the sun,
They came in droves to feast.
The butcher licked her crimson lips and smiled.
Not sure how many people have read the Second Earth Re-Told, by Patrick Woodroffe, but that book had a huge impact on me. This poem is a nod to his work.
i bleed poetry Apr 2018
You took my heart
and threw it on the floor
You stepped on it, you broke it
and used the sharp edges
to cut my flesh in the shape of your name
Still it wasn't enough,
You poured salt on my open wounds,
spit on my scars and left
I've given someone many chances even if they never asked for it~ chances for them to prove that they are worthy but they just kept proving me otherwise.
Nyx Apr 2018

Sharp and Cold
Those glass like eyes
Once you fall under their gaze
There is no way to resist.
Devil Atticman Mar 2018
Said the sword as the eye,
"My edge is the sharpest,
Quickest maker of greatest numbers."

So the squid said:
"Oblivion is the lip of my beak,"
And he was the sharper.

The eye, as the sword, set to the forge,
Forfeit to visions of keenness,

And became claimant to a wicked edge
Which shaved him of shame;
Which loved most the whetstone,
So he set back to sharpening,
Growing so fine as to slice the stone in twain.

In recoil, he knocked upon his plane
And cut himself from his steadfast cradle,
And was pulled silently
Into timeless unbecoming.
There are great lessons to be learned from fables. Short, deliberate fairy tales are delicious to me. I hope to do those flavors justice.
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