"cutters" poems
Misunderstood we are
The cutters who cut to make scars
Who cut their skin to feel alive
To cut the demons out
Misunderstood we are
People think we cut to get attention which is not true
If we want attention we'll do it in public
Misunderstood we are
You think we are freaks which we're not
People say we just want to die
We just cry for help
Misunderstood we are
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC
1. Sunlight
There was a sunlit absence.
The helmeted pump in the yard
heated its iron,
water honeyed
in the slung bucket
and the sun stood
like a griddle cooling
against the wall
of each long afternoon.
So, her hands scuffled
over the bakeboard,
the reddening stove
sent its plaque of heat
against her where she stood
in a floury apron
by the window.
Now she dusts the board
with a goose's wing,
now sits, broad-lapped,
with whitened nails
and measling shins:
here is a space
again, the scone rising
to the tick of two clocks.
And here is love
like a tinsmith's scoop
sunk past its gleam
in the meal-bin.
2. The Seed Cutters
They seem hundreds of years away. Brueghel,
You'll know them if I can get them true.
They kneel under the hedge in a half-circle
Behind a windbreak wind is breaking through.
They are the seed cutters. The tuck and frill
Of leaf-sprout is on the seed potates
Buried under that straw. With time to ****
They are taking their time. Each sharp knife goes
Lazily halving each root that falls apart
In the palm of the hand: a milky gleam,
And, at the centre, a dark watermark.
Oh, calendar customs! Under the broom
Yellowing over them, compose the frieze
With all of us there, our anonymities.
4.9k
chocolate fireguard, teapot,
or fender, icecream sofa, dry sea
or wet towel, glass hammer,
waterproof teabag, newspaper
raincoat and umbrella, lead parachute, ashtray on a motorbike,
handbrake on a canoe,
vote in a dictatorship,
loudhailer to a deaf mute,
grief at a wedding,
****** in a monastery.
inflatable dartboard,
spoon in a knife-fight,
screen door on a submarine,
wooden soap, shortbread tires,
knitted light bulb,
bread boat, plasticine wire cutters,
paper hole punch, water hat,
custard floorboards,
ceiling tiles made of gravy,
portrait of a bowl of soup,
a stone cigarette,
syrup knickers, hole in my bucket,
plastic oven, wax truss,
liquorice bridge,
false teeth made of soap,
lemonade roof,
jelly boots,
jam cardigan,
paper bicycle pump,
ice-cream saucepans,
soluble drain pipe,
packet of rubber nails,
see-through mirror,
revolving basement restaurant
roll-on hairspray, rubber pencil,
****** with a hole in it,
limp **** pockets on a lettuce,
**** on a fish, lolly pop van in Hell,
one-legged man in an ****
kicking competition,
meaningless life,
unnecessary death,
forgotten words and deeds,
ignored needs,
this poem.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 4:11 PM UTC
But where is the place for the people like us?
The artists, the cutters, the solemn observers.
Every INFJ. Every poisoned mind. Every social awkward with so much depth they just might sink.
The ones who have found their soul but are searching for their mind.
The ones who find their mind by losing their marbles.
The misrepresented and misunderstood.
The hurt and the happy.
With a requirement of so much patience and love that no one is willing or able to give.
The ones who make adjustments.
Who hit rock bottom and manage to get back up on their own.
The ones who fall too fast for something out of reach. They end up quietly crashing and burning.
The ones who are living under layers of paint; on their hearts and in their homes. Whose sweetness and innocence are buried somewhere underneath the paint, barely recognizable.
The ones who were born with a fifty year old soul.
Who have a biologically memorized speech that no one will hear; that no one can hear.
I ask you, where will they go, the people like us?
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 9:07 PM UTC
Go to sleep, and shut your eyes,
Please dream of broken butterflies
That tore their wings against a thorn.
For you know the pain that they have borne.
Silver metal, shines so bright.
Scarlet blood, that feels so right.
Dream of the blood that's trickling down,
And wake up just before you drown.
The moonlight's shining off your tears
Bleed out all your petty fears.
So tonight when you start to cry
You better whisper the cutters lullaby:
Hushabye baby, you're almost dead.
You don't have a pulse and your pillow is red.
Your family hates you, your friends let you bleed.
Sleep tight with a knife, cause it's all you'll need.
Rockabye baby, broken and scarred.
You didn't know life would be this hard.
Time to end the pain that you hid so well,
And down will come baby, straight back to hell.
Feb 28, 2012
Feb 28, 2012 at 10:05 PM UTC
I keep the shower window open
In 20 degree weather
There’s somethin’ about feeling
The freeze and burn together
Fusing two halves,
Fueling one desire
Steam pries at pores, like
Needle nose pliers
Winter exploits wounds
Haughty exhales through
Diamond ****** wrist cutters
Cascading
Cherry brandy drain water
Licking ankles purple
Branding Frost’s musings
As my final verse
Fire, ice — whichever comes first
Duality be ******
I favor efficiency
I’ll marvel as *********
At the sadist who takes me
But know that, once
Is all I can endure
And of this, I am sure
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 2:02 AM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
But I remain a believer in my ancestral religion
Whose God is wele but not the Germany world, it is a religion,
Like most of universal ancestral ones,
With appalling moral threshold,
When Elijah Masinde of dini ya Misambwa
Despised those who condemned man as notoriously religious
He meant human religious approach to life is absolute in nature
However diverse religions compete for human ears
Rich ones glorified in the luring away of modal ears
But all are devoid of spiritual impetus
Disappointing the progenitors of religious imperialism
These short-cutters in matters of sanctimony
Will not come to our heaven
They will get me sharing a cup of tea
With my sister- in-law; Mary, the mother of Jesus
And I will shun them, I will not know them
I will not invite them to a heavenly cup of tea
They will be suffocated by cadaverous appetite,
For we honor our religion with ancestral regard;
The Faith of Our Ancestors
But in ridicule they call us kaffirs, pagans, christo-pagans,
Animists, atheists, gentiles, non-believers, mediumists,
Rebellious rebels or whatsoever they call us;
The anti-muhamedan-mis-christologists,
Let them delude themselves,
If they disparage us with sick contumely
Abreast the dumbfounding development in sciences
Plus so fortuitous humanistic awareness,
Humanity in Religion has to adjust optimally
Religious masters have to help
Interpret the religious Books, bible, gita, quran
All Written or verbalistically in the glory of epical orality
In tandem with the best centered
Life extant,
Otherwise selfish religions becomes an old wine bag
With its old and stale wine,
You will persuade Russian carousers to drink
But to your chagrin, none will condone, your stale wine
Do not seek to sell your faith
Because every human community
Has an ancestral faith
Respect them all for that is gods in their accolade of
Omonipresecence,
Any man or woman without religion is dangerous
But do not advantagize yourselves
At the expense of people of other faiths
It is good you reciprocated
Planet earth is our only sure and known abode
If we lived well here, and there is another world
For those who will be good, we hope the conclave of Gods
Would all sit in judgment for their credit
And reward those who helped humble humanity
Of their religions as well as those of other religions
As for all the Gods love humanists.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 10:17 AM UTC
Drum Gold
Is my tobacco
It has character
And I had a girl once
Who liked Cutters Choice
And I told her it had more additives
And that it burnt hotter
And that Drum Gold had more character
And we spent nights exploring each other's bodies
And smoking Drum Gold
Which she adopted
But that ended
Like all good things
And I've forgotten a lot of those spent nights
And now she smokes Golden Virginia
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 7:20 PM UTC
Sunlight played off
the limes & golds
& there were azures too.
And my oh my,
how the howlers howled,
as dew dripped down
from the canopy
above.
It was quite mystical,
those ancient stone faces
stared at something
even I couldn't see.
But you could feel it there.
Oh yes, you could feel it there,
between the vines & toucans,
something unspoken,
something unnatural,
like spirits
gathering
with angst
for the
clear-cutters.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 3:57 PM UTC
So everyone has heard the term EMO and honestly it makes me sick
That people just throw the term around as if it was a meaningless stick!
EMO isn't just for cutting, and depression, because if that was the actual meaning, everyone be that way at somepoint.
EMO means EMOTIONAL.
EMO isn't just for cutters, or people with really dark personalities.
I'm a Dark person, and I've yet to cut over the last year and couple months.
So the next time you go to throw the "Title"/"Label" EMO at someone, really think about what your saying.
And if someone wants to throw that at you just look and Laugh because it's obvious they don't have a clue what they are saying.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 6:53 PM UTC
Quiet are the fields
with ghosts
from pennants past
the aces
and cutters
set idly away
from the maple
spread fall
soft sounds
of Sunday
(chilling on the boneyard)
telling tales of
validated stars
and wheel house legends
the rally cap sluggers
with mahogany eyes
Mustard colors
in floating mists
give a hallowed glow
to sublime skies
scattered walkers
trip to the hole
their spit buckets
and spigots
pressed loosely into
pure life form
bikers and loners
and curious coffee goers
mill about the horn
whispering numbers
from an old
Keelman heaving
Alley lookers
and Mendoza lines
screachers, bleachers
from years gone by
dancing fingers
and cracks at the bat
moonshots
(from the big time Timmy Jim)
the 9th inning gunner
with sinker
and slider
and imposing
brush back ballz
the game day citizen
and dugout warrior
who lit it all up
in Rockwell fame
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 11:28 PM UTC
Stop cutting.
I get it, life hurts.
You want to feel, something.
You would rather watch your own blood seep out of your body from a self inflicted wound, than experience the hurt you have inside.
I get it. Stop cutting.
You choose to hurt yourself because you are overwhelmed by the pain you have caused another person, even if it was unintentional. The thought of that person whom you have such strong feelings for, suffering because of your actions or in-actions, is almost unbearable.
I get it. Stop cutting.
You don't know what to make of your situation. You don't know how a person like you could end up in such a ****** up scene. You feel stuck, lost.
I get it. I do.
Stop cutting.
Your parents **** They don't understand the kind of **** you are going through. Sure they were kids once but that was different. Things were different back then. They don't get you and they probably never will. They don't care.
I get it. Stop cutting.
You really want to hurt yourself because you get off on the pain. You want it. You need it. You deserve it. You were put on this earth to suffer and you accept your role as martyr.
I get it. Truly, I do.
Stop cutting.
You need some sort of release. Something, anything. Anything but the consuming black,
nothing. The sweet release that only a razor can provide is the only thing that seems real to you amidst all of the drama.
I get it.
Stop cutting.
There is chaos in your life and the secret solitude provided by your ritual seems like an oasis.
I get it. Stop cutting.
You like the way your skin splits open. You like the way you can touch the cuts underneath your clothes. You like the way the scars remind you.
I get it.
Stop cutting.
The love of your life has abandoned you, leaving a void that nobody will ever fill. Ever.
You are completely and utterly alone.
Life *****
I get it.
You however, are beautiful,
inside and out,
scars and everything,
and you are not as alone as you think.
Please,
Please,
Please,
Stop cutting.
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 1:54 AM UTC
Hi, my name is Jacob & Imma wrist cutter.
Once a cutter, always a cutter.
Addiction, this is kind of like
A.A
but
get rid of the first
A
and replace it with a W.C
and there you have it.
W.C.A.
Our mission is to get all
the active cutters
to cut it out.
Cut, slice, and skin
bad ****
not your body.
It's beautiful without the scars.
& You
DESERVE
to die in a better way.
No one should leave the earth,
passed out,
blue,
cut up
burnt up
dried out
thrown out.
Passed out ,
drowning in a pool of your own blood
is not a glorious end
to a magnificent person.
Cut out cutting.
The Love Cult has
plenty
of band-aids
if you ever wanted to come visit.
Stay a while.
You'll <3 The Love Cult.
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 3:13 PM UTC
you call her a ****
you call her a *****
you tear her skin into tiny shreds
and then beg for more,
your masculinity is fuelled by the sexuality you stripped her of.
she has no right to be liberated in your eyes,
but your eyes also want to see what is in between her thighs,
your respect for her body only exists as long as she is your possession.
a woman is to you what a table is to a person;
something to use,
sometimes a burden.
a woman can't be outspoken without being a *****
but if she's quiet you treat her like ****
you tell us to fight for what we believe in,
but when we do you tell us we're complaining,
(maybe you think I'm complaining)
while you're thinking about that
please mind the wage gap,
yes the wage gap MORE THINGS TO COMPLAIN ABOUT!
I get 75 pence for every pound a man makes,
maybe I'm making mistakes?
no, no I am not.
perhaps some people have forgot
that someone's *** doesn't make them under qualified,
I think your brain is nonaligned,
because right now in two thousand and sixteen a woman should be respected even if she isn't the god **** queen.
I hope you can see what struggles women endure,
we may as well go back years and years and knit at home while you go to war.
I'll just be over here cleaning the entire house,
oh and while I'm at it I'll clean that glass ceiling while waiting for my husband and feeding my offspring
because that's all a woman does right?
cook clean and nurture, and give yourself to your husband at night
God forbid you swing the other way!
single, or worse...
no kids and gay!
women have to fit into perfect cookie cutters.
that, and a size 6
but not too skinny though, men aren't nutters!
big ***** big *** and a small waist
your extra few inches of skin can be erased with diet pills, exercise plans and corsets!
if not, you can choose the forfeit,
of society telling you that you can achieve your dream beach body,
to catch the attention of somebody
preferably a man who can be the bread winner,
while we can stay at home, look after his kids and cook his dinner.
I'll stop complaining now and go back to concealing my blemishes and under eye bags,
while you talk to your friend about how we are still just slags.
~T.T
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 8:33 AM UTC
I can't say that I know what it's like
To lose someone
And it's not because I have never experienced death
My Great Aunt died of lung cancer
Though she never smoked
And was the nicest lady
With what I assumed
Was a New York accent
To ever be convinced that I loved
Her Spinach Frittata
And who indirectly
Made jokes about my insatiable desire
To consume the apple pie
She died on the tenth of october in the year two-thousand ten
(10/10/10)
And I remember my father calling me to the kitchen
To tell me the news
I cried a little
And went back to my room to write angry poetry
But ultimately I was just tired
And went to sleep
Without really adressing anything
At her funeral, I remember my cousin telling me
The story of how her (then) long-term boyfriend
Used wire cutters to remove his braces
A week before they were due to come off
They called me over to put a shovelful of dirt
Into the grave
And I did
Then ran back, jumping as I did (jumping as I did),
To my cousin
Because her candid attitude let me know that it was ok
Not to be somber
My dad's friend had a stroke which dislodged blood clots and sent him
Into a coma for a long time
And while we posed with him for Christmas pictures
(I hated posing, I hated the picture-taking, I hated smiling, it all felt wrong)
And my father promised that hypnosis was going to work
My dad's friend died
In a hospital bed
In his home
In a historical region of uptown Whittier
My dad lost his friend
My mom lost hers as well
When she stopped talking to his wife
Who had been her friend first
The cousin who was talking to me at the funeral
Lost her (then) boyfriend
When she woke up one morning
To find him dead with her
In bed
So I can't say that I know what it's like
Because I have lost people
I've seen death
And I dislike it
I dislike the thought that all my
Teachers will die before me
And I am sad thinking about those days
That I will be in the crowd
One of the Touched
I dislike that I don't know what it's like
Because I don't see it like the others
I try to remember beauty in their life
Beauty that they shared with me
Beauty that I will keep alive
Like the energy cell
The Doctor blew life into
To power the TARDIS
But if I can't find it
If there was nothing we shared
If there is nothing to tie me to them
I feel bad that someone else feels bad
I dislike their pain and
I wish I could give them a hug
And that the hug would fix everything
But it won't
And all I can do is think about
How much I ****
At comforting grievers
And how much I wish
I could be a better comforter
But I'm not
Because I don't do well with death
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 12:37 AM UTC
THREE tailors of Tooley Street wrote: We, the People.
The names are forgotten. It is a joke in ghosts.
Cutters or bushelmen or armhole basters, they sat
cross-legged stitching, snatched at scissors, stole each
other thimbles.
Cross-legged, working for wages, joking each other
as misfits cut from the cloth of a Master Tailor,
they sat and spoke their thoughts of the glory of
The People, they met after work and drank beer to
The People.
Faded off into the twilights the names are forgotten.
It is a joke in ghosts. Let it ride. They wrote: We,
The People.
2.1k
“I’m not the conspiracy theorist, you’re the conspiracy theorist. You're the one who believes that 19 islamic terrorists with box-cutters conspired with a bearded man in a cave then bypassed a multi-billion dollar security system to knock down 3 buildings with 2 airplanes. You’re the one who believes that buildings can come down in perfect free-fall and pancake form at free fall speed. I'm not the nutty conspiracy theorist, you are!”
Nov 27, 2010
Nov 27, 2010 at 9:51 PM UTC
I roll out my mind
I knead to concentrate
I pound and pound and pound
Trying to smooth it straight
And once it’s even
I roll up my sleeves
And cut shapes with the cutters
Of reason and release
Now holes are left
In interesting shapes
And I roll up what’s left
To start over again
I’m on a roll
I knead to concentrate
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 7:32 AM UTC
Galileo Galilei--
Physicist, mathematician,
Astronomer, philosopher--
You angered the Roman Inquisition
And later the Pope and Jesuits as well.
Your scientific observation
That the earth moves around the sun
Was deemed a heretical revelation!
Spreading ideas "contrary to scripture"--
A risky endeavor and path to take--
Guaranteed life imprisonment
Or a gruesome burning at the stake.
Under pressure you recanted:
"The earth doesn't move around the sun."
They say that under your breath you muttered,
"And yet it moves." You lost, yet won.
Though you lived under house arrest
For years until the day you died,
Your scientific contributions
To benefit mankind cannot be denied.
It's sad when dogma and ignorance attempt
To force dissenters into compliance.
It's sadder yet that in this century
Too many people still ignore science.
Our thoughts aren't shaped from cookie cutters;
Beliefs don't all fit the same mold.
Praise to the thinkers who soar to great heights
And break authority's stranglehold.
Praise to those who dare to defy
Petrified positions or views--
Who challenge our mind-set and open our eyes
To truth and awareness, despite jeers and boos.
- by Bob B
Oct 15, 2016
Oct 15, 2016 at 8:55 AM UTC
I think about you around the holidays,
how I’d follow the sprinkles scattered on the floor
like bright constellations guiding me to you
kneading dough on the kitchen counter.
Your dress shirt, missing a button near the pressed collar,
was painted with flour. You carried those grains of sugar
in the pocket of your fingernails for days.
The holidays aren’t the same since you left.
The wreath has shed its needles
like a rattlesnake stripping of its skin.
The Coca-Cola snow globe on the mantel has cracked,
leaking snow confetti onto the rug.
(I swear it was sobbing, too.)
Last night, I awoke to a glass ornament
dropping to the floor like a fallen angel.
I sliced my fingertip on a shard
while sweeping the remains.
I found your missing button under the tree skirt,
the only piece of you that stayed.
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 12:18 AM UTC
forgot i was able
forgoe the sugar cane
horse towed them over the edge
coarse hair
coerced into the trap
willing and able
are you able?
are you billing me?
is this thrilling?
have we been feeling
the same?
come over here
something else over there
i'm forgetful
i'm a disgrace to the top
upper crust societors
upper cut so much science
tons of honor
tons more scholarly journals
hurtled over the canyon wall
carried by the wind to those unlistening
wishing they could hear you
sifting thorugh the river for rocks
to deliver you
giver of too many
stories we already know
tore off all of our clothes
promised tonight would be
different than so many
others i laughed at
others i couldn't have
summer is ours to be
somewhat more into fear
someone to hold you dear
come one come all to hear
believer of something more
deliverer of sudden storms
of folk tail magic token
now open your eyes to your own faults
now look to the sky and know the hawks
are staring down with hungry eyes
they're bearing down they see you in the crowd
falling allover selfish rags
hagship tailors
flag waving tagless sleeve cutters
closing shutters in your mechanism
exposed to low level flash bulbs
just enough to imprint the entire night into something more
we would never remember if not for your loose grip
where you fell to the floor
and
saved another for
the last night you swore you wouldn't take a sip
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 11:47 AM UTC
Let me write you a poem, not because I can but because I have to
Your name drips like candy off the tongue, in a world that seems empty of all else your pulse feels like drag racing on a highway.
Put your hands on me. Bluntly and stop, thinking and start feeling me. Crawling into your bed and holding your head up so I can peer into your mind, to see what I can find.
I want to remind myself of how much I mean to you
and how late nights are form fitting dresses on an anorexic,
Sugar pills given to diabetics.
red markers given to cutters, or braces given to people who stutter.
You, are every if and or but I’ve ever ignored. I implore you to understand me
my nooks and crannys, my would’s, should’s and can be’s.
I want you like ****** coursing through my veins.
I can’t contain myself.
Skip town on a bus, to find your way into my room on my bed under my sheets, my skin, my heat. Beat me, leave bruises on my thighs so when my lovers see them they have to ask why and I have to hide you, like a drug addiction and bad breath in the morning, you feel like global warming against my skin, when you literally lift me up I’m reminded of how small I am in comparison.
Let me write you a poem, not because I want to but because I’m in love with you.
Had you fooled didn’t I?
Let’s get one thing straight.
I hate the way you make me feel.
I’ve taken too much time to heal these wounds and you remind me that they’re still fresh.
My body feels like it’s in love, I can’t think of anything else when you’re around
except the sound in my own head.
I fell in love with you like a razor blade cuts across fresh skin.
Quickly, and with the malice of a thousand swearing tongues
I found your name on the end of a list too many times to forget.
and I hate it.
Because I never write poems for people I am not in love with.
So forgive me if I can’t come to grips with the idea that I have
fallen for you like a snow storm, like the rain that shatters glass.
Kicking and screaming, on the soft grass.
Let me write you a poem, not because I can, but because I’m afraid that I have to.
If I don’t write these memories down then I might forget you.
and I don’t want to.
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 8:49 PM UTC
the surgical procedure required to probe into your
skull is way too difficult for me. how difficult is it to
learn how to examine the thoughts you conjure up,
like arithmetic or magic. the stem cutters to pull the
dead roots out of you are dull, like the color of dead
coral or fishes that don't see sunlight. maybe the fishes
just don't swim to the surface too often. if i would have
seen your arsenal and armory before i dedicated every
inch of my pointless existence of a heart to you, every
hour of my life wouldn't hold disdain and regret for you.
the only difference between us and a car crash was that
the shrapnel and glass was our shattered memories.
the hairline fractures that are burned into my wrist's bones
have turned into full blown fragments eradicated from the
ligaments. i've seen fall, winter, spring, and summer meet
all in the same day because of you. you are an impossible
calculation, a lobotomy no pet scanner can recognize.
- kra
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 7:20 PM UTC
The cutter will cut in a cutters world,
the hurt won't stop in a life unfurled,
the blood will drip like drops of rain
eaten alive by sorrow and pain
you will feast on smiles and greed
but Ill just cut and watch it bleed
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 3:04 PM UTC
The Saturday night crowd, all here to see Dave Van Ronk,
sit huddled in the fashion of Antwerp diamond cutters,
sipping cinnamon/marshmallow coffee at the tables.
Caffe Lena is Saratoga's happening place in the 60's and
we're here to forget the war and civil strife in the ghettos.
Sister Mary Katherine, sans frock, is the warmup act,
but no one really gives her any mind,
as she struggles to seat herself upon the stool
intended for the six-foot plus Van Ronk.
Joan Baez prepare to eat your heart out!
Without so much as introduction, she
breaks into a high soprano Just Like Tom Thumb's Blues.
Heads pivot like synchronized swimmers toward the stage.
Her silken voice emits notes blinking
into reality from quantum fluctuations in space/time.
Every quivering high-C grafts the audience together.
She's spinning veils of sound,
the like of which our ears are unfamiliar.
The quavers in her throat match the tremors in my coffee.
In the back of the cafe a drunken Van Ronk passes out.
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 8:49 PM UTC