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David R Oct 2018
Veiled in lies, the snake lies waiting,
Venom'd fangs, jaws dilating,
Salivating, watching, baiting,
Sure to pounce, mutilating.

With forked tongue, she paints my heart black,
Drips her poison into my kidneys,
Sinks her talons into my bare back,
Cuts raw innocence to jagged pieces.

My name is silence, my job to suffer,
Make no sound, nor word utter,
Though the dragon spits forth fire,
George shall guard himself from ire.
The gentle drawl of Guy Clark's voice
called me from my sleep,
saying that when his father died
he'd found no tear to weep.

It wasn't that his dad was mean,
nor that he didn't try,
but Guy couldn't find a worthy tear--
he wasn't yet ready to cry.

The blade was broken off the knife
a half inch from the tip.
He could almost feel its  jagged edge,
recalling that camping trip

His dad had let him take the knife
to a Boy Scout Jamboree
it was there he broke the blade tip off
throwing at a tree

That knife had served at daddy's side
when he went off to war,
saving his life in combat.
Of that he'd say  no more.

His father never said a word--
put the broken knife away.
It rested in a dresser drawer
until his dying day.

It was only when Guy's hand had found
and closed around the handle
that he knew, amid the sudden tears
Dad had loved him more than Randall.
Inspired by Guy Clark's song, "The Randall knife," on You tube.
Umi Mar 2018
Urges through the night, a blade dancing with its mistress, discarding what has summoned up in her way alike a ****** crazed devotion,
Scarlet tears make their way down her cheek, washing the sand off as the pillars around begin to collapse alike cards one by one at the time,
Phantoms rage as a pure flower appears to commence blooming,
The warped moon embraces the shadows of such fools as it rises,
Actions with not much meaning seek their rampage as the battle field becomes frail and soulless through this sleepless night of lunacy,
When the flood of realisation arrives she will be swept away unlike the wise who make a more solid, stadfast decision. How trecious,
Does she want to take a dance with this cruel world she rampages on, are her ideals fitting for this battle she is about to win for now,
Drenched in blood and impurities of her work, her mind remains pure, innocent, not even sweating one thought to the consequences,
Mercy nor compassion are unlikely to be granted in this darkening realm, not to her dancing knife or her lunatic ****** devotion,
Time is moving, as she sacrafices her soul for her actions,
Taking another dance in this distorted dark

~ Umi
Albuna Dec 2018
be nice with your words...

Because sometimes people don't realize,
that their words can hurt you more than a knife...

All you people can't you see?
Your words, they broke me...
Words can sometimes hurt more than a knife,
they can destroy your entire life...
Osiria Melody Mar 13
She sits alone among the hive of chipper folks.
Blends like camouflage in a forest of seclusion.
Lives life as if it were a never-ending hoax.
Suicide on her mind, day and night.

She breathes the air, wishing it were poison.
Blends her false emotions like watercolors.
Another fatal thought shoots her rationality.
Suicide on her mind, day and night.

She cries tears to drain her sadness,
only to find comfort in feeling broken.
The only emotion that she's ever felt
because the world told her that her life
isn't worth it anymore.

Her folks do not give a care because
depression is just an "attention-seeking
state of mind."
Her friends brand her as a liar because
"everything's in her head."
Her neighbors even asked, "Why aren't
you not alive?"

S U I C I D E  O N  H E R  M I N D ,  
D A Y  A N D  N I G H T .

She sells an expensive smile that buys
your trust of "she's fine." No, she's not.
Depression is a knife that cuts and heals
her, a relentless test against her inner-strength.

Although it may seem easier to push your agony into a corner than to heal, you're far more stronger than you believe; you matter in this world because
you're capable of conquering anything.
Michael Kariuki Feb 2018
A knife has ploughed into my wrist,
    tearing my veins like little blood-red strings.
A knife is maneuvering through my arteries
        slicing and dicing like a butcher.
The tip of the blade has survived
    the journey to the other side of my wrist
leaving a cavernous hole of flesh and mangled meat.
        The knife is not done, it wants more flesh.
Blood is spurting onto the floor,
    Morphing into a scenic red painting.
The blood looks like grape juice spilling out of
        my straw of an artery.

Did you think that the knife was the slaughterer?
    A hand is directing the knife.
A hand is training the knife to carve out
        my mashed wrist into smuttier mesh.
The fountain of blood spraying around the room
    is making me dizzy.
My ruby eyes follow the faint pathway of the hand
        controlling the piercing blade;
up the forearm, round the elbow, along the shoulder,
    till I can't look anymore. Why?
I'd be glaring into my own ruby red eyes,
        wouldn't I?
The sky crackles and I feel the most alone.

Just like that day in the woods.

My special place was off the trail, but he couldn't have known me,

I was so young and such an idiot,

Not everyone is genuine but I was so trusting,

I can still smell the sickening mixture of fresh-fallen rain,his sweat, the mud around the creek and salt from my tears.

With every atmospheric collision from the sky
my stomach churns tasting the blood in my mouth from his fist thundering against my tear stained cheeks.

When the wind blows  
I can still feel his callous hands bruising and exploring my unwilling body, and scraping against
the most intimate parts of me.

The lightning is when I remember the rock that found my desperate palms and crashing against his temple

The wind howls and the rain finally starts to fall then, near my belly button burns just like it did when the blade he swung wildly cut me before I could run and the water is my heartbeat pounding  in my ears,
but I can hear him behind me
The rush If my blood reminding me I’m still alive mind begging me to stay that way, his threats pushing me further

Head pounding ,body burning,
I burst through my front door

And then I start to cry
Rain storms are actually very hard for me to get through due to some other traumas but the storm that passed when I wrote this smelled like that day. Thunder really triggers me especially when I'm alone I used to cry in school when it thundered in the weeks after this incident but then I started to internalize it and I'd just be really quiet on those days. Trigger Warning, ****, molestation, violent attaked on a minor.
Ginger R May 2018
"Love others"
If my heart
Is exposed,
Any stray knife
Could fly right
Through it
yellow soul Jul 2018
I cut myself with a sharp knife
It wasn’t on purpose I swear
I feel the pain  
I Think I fainted
Never have I ever seen this much blood before
It was all over the bathroom floor
One sick thought I got
“collect my blood In a little jar”
And that I did
But then I got to think
I realized It was sick
I washed the blood of the jar
And called my mom saying
That I dropped the knife on my foot
Wasn’t on purpose nur so good
I waited for her to come home

my blood on our bathroom floor
Özcan Sh Mar 17
She stabbed my heart
With a sharp knife
And wonders why I smile

She didn’t  know that
I feel her feelings
Through the pain I get

Tears fell from her eyes
The knife was still in my heart
And still I held her tightly
In my arms.
cait-cait May 2018
i would **** for you —
you know ,, ?

stain my white dress in red :
you .

blood dripping down a
i would swear i never

they would end up catching me
of course ,

they always do —

the devil would sneer
disappointed ,

lace dress tight —
her lips curled in painted pink ,
when everything seems
h o t .

               she knows
i would **** for you,
would never,
"well here we are again, its always such a pleasure"

i saw that funny tumblr post that said "its hotter than the devils p*ssy in here"
I am sitting there, on my bed,
Watching a couple of episodes,
About a medieval England going to war.

I am sitting there, on my bed,
With a Swiss pocket knife,
Wait for my self to cut again.

I am sitting there, on my bed,
Asking my self why I still do it
Wondering if it became more of a habit.

I am sitting there, on my bed,
The sheets colored red,
And a red river flowing down my arm.

I am sitting there, on my bed,
Asking my self,
Why I still live.

I am sitting there, on my bed,
All alone, without a tear to cry,
Without a person to share the pains with.

I am sitting there, on my bed,
With the knife covered in red,
A deep cut in my arm,
And a sheet stained in red.
Osiria Melody Feb 23
Amazing how a text message conveying
Regarded as a few lines of dejection
Amazing how a photo of joviality,
Regarded as a—fallacy
Amazing how a video of life's best moments,
Ignites a fire of jealousy, a ring of volcanic
comments surging with scorching words

Amazing how my likes and comments strikes
another's conscience,
Belittling their importance since being popular
means everything
Having the most followers means being a valid
member of society
Amazing how the fame of being a social media
phenomenon is the best thing in the world,
Nothing could replace the missed connection that
you and I share

Among the shared posts and counterfeit feelings of
We lose what it means to connect to one another
Rather than living in life's moments selflessly,
Everything is about me, me, me
Not you, 'cause my posts matter more for my

A missed connection of what reality means,
Above the ubiquitous screens emitting blue light,
Fill in all of these captured memories
Not through a glowing device, but through eyes of
Experiencing what it means to cross the bridge between
an idealized world to mundane

A missed connection of what reality means
For once, put down that screen and live in reality
with me

It's not very fun conversing with someone in-person when they're on their phone.
Alaa qapaja Feb 2018
It’s like a knife in the middle of your back
You can't Reach it
You cant drag it out
you shouldn't...
Lovely Dec 2018
Why did love disguise itself as a man?
Why did love put a gun in my hand?
In my bed, in my head, in my hand.
Was it for redemption?
Was it for revenge?
Was it for the bottle?
Was it for the ledge?
Was it for the thrill of pushing my hopes off the edge?
Why did love open up my scars?
Why did love put a knife in my heart?
In my bed, in my head, in my heart.
Was it for revenge?
Was it for the smokes?
Was it for the amends?
Was it for the sadness?
Was it for the thrill of watching all my madness?
Why did love put the gun in my hand?
Why did love put the knife in my heart?
In my bed, in my head...
Remember when I cut my hands
and wrists
and you told the world
behind my back

I'll remember
when you smoked
did drugs
skipped class
messaged a stranger back

Tell the world
Behind your back

You stabbed me
caught by surprise

I cleaned the knife
ready to get you back

I'm not all about revenge
this is only what you deserve

I need help
You need help

We're never going to help ourselves

Better tell someone
it only hurts more
this way
At least I give things back
You take things for yourself
J L S Dec 2018
there’s a knife in my right lung,
and my left one is drowning.

and im watching you walk away,
choking on the blood in me
and it
mixes with the tears at the edge of my lips,
those same ones that dreamt of your kiss.

i can’t hear you anymore,
your voice falls short
because you didn’t know
that deafness,
was a side effect of heartbreak.

and you’re screaming at me,
you’re crying out that you can’t lose me-
but i’ve been lost before,
i thrive when i wander without aim
and you know that hearts never come back the same.

i found somebody to exist with me,
to lay and let the world be
but she’s gone away now,
existing by me only caused her strife—
she bid farewell,
and handed me a knife.
Maia Vasconez Jan 26
I keep thinking about the night
he sat across from me
ripping into a pomegranate
with his hands but
I couldn’t stop seeing it as
a bleeding heart.

He put his lips on
My lips but
It just felt like he was trying to eat me.
Lawrence Hall Nov 2018
Every morning good Damocles wakes up
And after breakfast from a drive-through bag
Salutes the time-clock with a merry ding
From a little card that records his time

He drives his forklift or his cubby-desk
And sorts each pallet or computer code
Into their places in the secular scheme
The minor chain of being more-or-less

Until a meeting when, and with great sorrow,
A Suit tells all, “we’re shutting down tomorrow.
Oh, the company still exists (and what could be finer?),
But we’re sending all your jobs away to China.”
s Willow Jan 24
A knife in her back
she falls
against the walls.
Blue eyes
a wond healing face.
With a
and a
puzzle pieces
fall into place.
On that day
She turned
Her back
Gemma Jun 2018
******* a kiss
and I'll give you my entire life.
Your skin screams for me to scrape my teeth along it,
your jaw cuts through me like butter sliced by a knife.
What is this feeling?
It feels like last time ,
But better .
I think I've found the meaning
of your being,  
I was also a pretty little thing that was begging to be ****** by your eyes
Over and over and over.
Kirsten Hunt Jan 3
Your lavender smell it reminds me of the darkest time in my life.
The knife you dragged across your wrist brings tears to my eyes.
And your black clothes reminds me of the day you left this world.

A poem to my dead self
muna Jun 2018
I can never cut.
But sometimes I swear,
It feels like wounds are being carved into my heart,
And I wonder if carving these wounds unto my skin
Can relieve it.
This kind of pain you can’t reach;
No matter how far into yourself you stretch,
If I could grab my heart and squeeze it till it is numb;
Like I would if the knife slips;
Till all the red in my finger fades away;
Till all the pain in my heart fades away.

I can never cut.
Except with the words I stick myself with everyday.
You taught me how to self-harm, I took the blade from you,
And convinced myself that it hurts less if I’m the first one to say it;
That if I kept cutting at my heart,
If I kept giving myself scars,
Then the ones you gave me didn’t matter.
And I never let them heal;
The wounds,
They never heal.

I can never cut.
Because for the life of me I cannot get accustomed to pain.
I cannot get accustomed to you hurting me over and over again.
I cannot get accustomed to bleeding inside.
My wounds are too afraid to be seen.
My wounds refuse to etch themselves unto my skin;
To be so bold.
I cannot wear myself inside out;
My pain inside out.
But I swear,
When these wounds are being carved into my heart,
I consider if carving them unto my skin,
Will ever relieve the pain.
please don't cut.
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