#scratch
I will bring you into
Your future
If you let go
Of the past.
A past that lives alone
As a hermit
Telling itself stories
Self combusting
For answers
That never come.
So come along
The slate is clean
Wherever you go
In the present moment,
On paper, stone or wood
Horizons of happenings
That never end
Even for tomorrow,
A future can be
Safely scratched
In for you.
So, release the
Weight of sorrow
The musing of regret
Let the tales have
Their place in time
As you leave them behind
And I will show you
An infinite wealth
Of living where
Nothing
Can tie you down.
Dec 10, 2025
Dec 10, 2025 at 11:19 AM UTC
Oh flesh of mine
Why are you there?
So susceptible, fragile,
Like a piece of fabric
Oh flesh of mine
What are you for?
Just a piece of meat,
A limit of its own
Oh flesh of mine
How do you work?
You scratch, bleed,
Break, and hurt,
Oh flesh of mine
Oh flesh of mine
How do you survive?
Such cruelties there are
Oh flesh of mine
Why do you suffer?
Why do I suffer?
Why do you limit?
Why do you hurt?
Oh flesh of mine…
Nov 10, 2025
Nov 10, 2025 at 3:47 PM UTC
it’s only i get a little scratchy across my shins at 1:33
forehead against work desk
leant down to run a track on my legs
phone untouched, shortcuts retraced
HTT ..PS//
ishouldntcheckyoursocials. us.
couldn’t make me an addict of loss
which really is the untapped potential
for the future internet of things
safari, waystone.
safari, favourer of webpage rerunners,
safari, guide me back to a bookmarked
cliff-edge of ache.
cookies know me better than my housemate who’s sweetness blocked his accounts before something broke and we’d have to talk about it.
once the whiter lines appear on shinskin like my algorithm
I can sit back up
if not satiated at least appeased
the sound my lungs make isn’t really laughing or crying but
a wheeze.
Mar 27, 2024
Mar 27, 2024 at 9:45 AM UTC
I've an itch to scratch
Inside my nose;
An itch that runs
Down to my toes.
I'll yoga pose
With those, my toes,
To wiggle-tiggle
That scratchy itch
Tickling my nose.
Mar 8, 2022
Mar 8, 2022 at 8:37 AM UTC
The keyboard on which I type has built
A layer of gunk, finger oils, and
What have you
My houses are formed of chicken scratch
Wooden board, then - nail, another board, it's
Just practice
A Hallmark life and coffee spoon lines
Too chicken to scratch - an itch, the surface,
Toothless skin
So maybe just maybe, peel yourself up from the world
Claw the sensation away wherever it comes
For ****** mere moments, let yourself become unfurled
Sep 18, 2021
Sep 18, 2021 at 12:35 AM UTC
The nails at the ends of my fingers
Are a different kind of blade
They aren't ice cold or sharp
But I bleed just the same
The scratches on my arms
Are from a different kind of pain
It isn't deep and firey
But the scars still remain
Oct 6, 2020
Oct 6, 2020 at 10:12 PM UTC
Feeling like a stylus on a premium LP
Can't lift up too slow or slide it
Fragile bone dust
Be slow, be quick, be ready
Scratching is not an option
Feeling this way again
Second-hand turntable
Treated as a diamond or replaceable
How is it, my friend
The stylus feels old
Not sure if the sound is reaching you
Enough to bring you
Out alive, on my knees
Scratching is not an option
May 16, 2020
May 16, 2020 at 2:22 PM UTC
Borderline hues shatter upon the
fragmentations
of sullen gullied pools..
Where the refraction of utopia shines,
the *** is deceitful and tarnished.
As every prism of reverence disperses.
Heaven is a shard of falsehood
cutting into the sky...
Perceptions see an aura-borealis.
But woven with the beauty
is the curse of fallen angels..
For all who stared upon the glare
were severed from sight...
Dilating upon the sorrow of
written words etched in eyelids.
The world was beauty, and you blinded it..
Now we will scratch every word inward.
See the error of your ways, and walk as before.
Apr 23, 2020
Apr 23, 2020 at 6:53 PM UTC
Just because every leaf & stem, n all the greenery of foliage-
Twist up to the sun;
Doesn't mean some flowers won't still bloom in shadow.
Don't discredit a blossom in the dark- Though the light hits the leaves,
the truth of each petal
Is privately dispatched,
Through each color- and in each shape
of every lightless rhythm.
Apr 9, 2020
Apr 9, 2020 at 9:33 PM UTC
Trigger Warning: self-harm, blood, death, suicide
These are not monsters.
There are no monsters here.
These feel like love,
and when they creep inside you
it's like something once missing
is finally coming home.
How could a monster make such
pretty pictures?
Pretty pictures,
pretty ****** pictures,
they look like everything
that is in this universe is bleeding,
like rivers of red
and pumping veins
and all I've thought about for the past three days
is my own blood leaking from my wrists
and these monsters (not monsters)
can make you feel it too.
You'll learn to make jokes about why
there's a scratch on your thigh
and why you won't be caught dead
in anything but head-to-toe clothing.
Lifting the perfectly wrapped blades
with delicate red-stained fingers
to hesitant perfect skin
and when the jokes get too cumbersome,
and feel too much like a cry for help,
like speaking up, like letting go,
learn to put an end to words,
forget what speaking is and
by the end of 6th grade
you'll know every spot in your house
where no one will look for you
blood-dripping stash.
The monsters (not monsters)
will share their secrets.
You'll learn that crayon-colored pencil sharpeners,
when applied pressure turn into a weapon
and can be easily hidden in a box of mints
the time every night when you receed into your mind
feels like a nightmare and a daydream
and you can slip
for only the cost of the rest of your life spent
worshipping
the biting feeling of metal in skin
searching up picture and picture
and dead girl and picture
you, too, can spend the rest of the day
smelling of blood leaking down
your wrists.
Go, they'll say,
searching with sure hands, hastily covered wrists-
memorize the lines of your veins
and all the lies you could tell
spend hours in the bathroom
counting cuts
fifty
one hundred
two hundred
three.
Suddenly your skin swells and the blood bleeds
the color of spilled wine
you will learn to avoid everyone
because people mean questions
you will spend your birthday
fantasizing about burying
your blades into your throat
until your heart stops.
The not-monsters
will feed you your first hospitalization,
and your second, and your seventh.
They will leave your once peaceful skin
covered in a mass of scars,
just for you.
And when your life gets too weak,
and your mind starts to crumble,
but where blades break skin
galaxies will implode.
An entire universe will force
itself from your wounds
pushing flesh and veins out of your way
and you'll faint
but you'll be happy
because at least you're not numb
you'll decompose
until you cannot be differentiated
from all the skeletons that live in your closet.
Don't you wish you could die
don't you wish you could have that control
don't you wish you could make your dad cry
because he just doesn't get why you'd do this
you don't get why you do this
you're smart but you just googled
how many ounces of blood can you lose
before you pass out
the horrible girls
horrible bleeding girls
horrible dying girls
horrible dead girls
the parasite can be restrained but not destroyed.
But no matter.
It's a beautiful thing to be made of scars
the picture of your ****** arms in the bathroom
was worth it.
Mar 31, 2020
Mar 31, 2020 at 7:08 PM UTC
Place your head on my chest,
Rest your eyes,
We don't need to see what's on the outside
I'd lay my head down on your shoulder
Light weight, that's how I feel you to I
But this boulder weighs way more on my own.
You struggle like I struggle, no magic answer
Just muggles muddling, I'm ninety-nine pieces
To a hundred piece puzzle, see?
But even if I found that piece,
I'd find a new one to not fit me.
I'm the fabric to a blanket no one could crochet,
No needles could thread these stitches
I'll always lay incomplete at the bottom of the bed.
Erasing the end of my words to remain unread
Wishing on stars that have already burned out
Hey dad, you proud?
Look how broken I turned out.
I'll always be lame that's what they said
Erasing the end of my words to remain...
Jan 20, 2020
Jan 20, 2020 at 2:39 PM UTC
Factions dance blade
to grindstone
(action)
Scholars scratch pen
to paper
(action)
Thinkers mash pride
to danger
(inaction)
What have I done?
Oh, I've lived
Meaningless & Ill
Longer than expected
What all have I done?
Eagerly
Ejected myself
From womb, to wooden womb
Feb 19, 2019
Feb 19, 2019 at 11:05 PM UTC
My heart is scratched
But I won’t say or sway
Or look at the gaping space within
Guess it was never known
That I felt this way
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 5:02 PM UTC
Chicken scratch,
Chicken scratch...
scribbles,
Slashed against the page...
What is this rage?
This ink is my blood.
Let me bleed some more.
~Robert van Lingen
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 9:18 PM UTC
The sheathing of this bulb
has broken, filled with scratches
Although it still shines bright
Hub of its joy: serving me
It has seen all of my doodles
but gave away nothing
My infant poems often think
that its light is their mother
My sweat, my tears, my nightmares
are its insignia, its tatoo
It imputes its capability
of breathing to me
but I am the apprentice here
Dec 24, 2018
Dec 24, 2018 at 8:09 AM UTC
Stay cautious
Believe me
Got broken takes, no time
Healing, a way long
Fragments,
Need to be confirm
Align to the earlier form
Stabilize for endurance
Then finally
Makeover stitch
Allowing the time to recover
But this is not the end
Some of us take
Much longer than
The usual time
In those
Who are obsessed
To scratch the scar
Recall the moment
With a same dumb question
Why me?
Little do we knew
Why few don’t
Want to get healed
And what keeps them
Scratching
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 6:52 PM UTC
the bathtubs full with cold water - you place your hands on the inside of my ribs - the petals drop like last nights shooting stars - and you told me that was your first kiss - bang bang on my windows baby until i wake up - because no one can know that your in here baby no i don't want no fuss - nails scratching down your velvet skin - do you know how to make me spin? can you make me spin? baby i need you to make me spin - was it really your first kiss? - why do we always lie like this - cry like this - staying awake late in the night to feel your lips - on my hips - make me forget
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 7:51 PM UTC
Life is a record scratch
a record scratch
a record scratch
a record scratch
a record scratch
a record scratch
Until the needle is lifted
and moved somewhere new
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 11:51 AM UTC
Head can now explode
But my hair rises black
Higher than this
Feeling inside like
I am,
Screaming
the sound could send waves
In new directions.
Capture or let go...
They both make me feel
Insane
Unable to do anything else
The roar is paralyzing me
Get me into the black hole
already
I need the other side
Rage-Light, flashing
You would be blind by now
But I see too much
Scratching out your eyes.
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 11:38 PM UTC
I've been
carving my name into everything permanent, like
the sidewalk behind the house of someone
I once knew,
trying to leave my mark on people the same way, as if
they were slabs of concrete that lay idle
waiting for passerby to scratch words into them;
I've been treating this whole thing like it should last,
like somehow being permanent erases all questions of
responsibility;
Like somehow, knowing my name is marked up somewhere
along the back alley of a person I don't even talk to anymore;
somehow, my life will add up to something -
somehow, the things that I do will matter.
But that isn't how it works, and you can't go around
writing things into people in hopes that they'll one day thank you
for leaving your mark on them.
Leaving marks isn't always a good thing.
Sometimes, you have to accept that no matter how good a thing is,
you erase its beauty by holding it -
sometimes,
people and places are simply meant to be let go, and this
is at once a beauty and a shout into the void
because I do not know how and when I will be remembered,
in what place, what time, what memory
but I hope that I amount to more
than a few words in blocky letters
scratched out hastily at 2am like a secret
that should never have been told.
I hope, somewhere,
I amount to more than that.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 7:30 PM UTC
I saw your spaceship in the sky
For the first time, I was inspired
Whisk down myself from my pallor state
Explore your traces on the other side
I was told to not listen
I was told to not deprive
The agony's waiting
For my ego and essence to combine
Oh, how false it is to hear
That the children know the answers
We are saints who became sinners
Viruses whom itself the healers
Oh, how false it is to see
The people down in the forest
Singing a beautiful chorus
Where anyone's forced to swallow phosphorus
Flicker once, flicker twice
Heaven turns, rocks will rise
Remain untold and remain unwise
A planet where else no one criticizes
Flicker once, flicker twice
March up to the sea
Take me up, seal the door
Though I don't want to march here anymore
The pantaloon
The silver spoon
The lady walks
Unto the moon
Remembrance and escapades
I will perish alone,
Very soon
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 9:35 AM UTC
“Let’s burn oaks!” my mother said
Then she lit a tiny match
Still can’t fit it in my head
So much fire made from scratch
She said: “Oaks! Let’s burn them all!”
Then she drank a glass of wine
‘Twas a sunny day in fall
Fire started, I was nine
Mar 1, 2018
Mar 1, 2018 at 1:58 PM UTC
I woke up to my own face,
What was happening?
Then I felt heat and heard a pinging sound,
like a ball bouncing against glass...
Then I realized the bathroom mirror,
Old and stained,
Was taunting me... Ready to scratch...
Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 3:32 PM UTC
Stand alone
scratching the spine
of my open book.
I alone
touch this book
manipulate the spine.
They warn of the bright outside
When I see only dark
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 1:38 AM UTC