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Silverflame Aug 2016
When my finger met the paper, in a brief love affair, it took my blood as a trophy.
Then the red droplets created a beautiful mess as they sank into the dead white wood.
It stung badly, and it continued to hurt as I went on a mission to find a bandage that
could keep the crimson art inside of me, instead of spilling it everywhere.
When I wiped the excess blood away I saw nothing, yet I was still in pain.
But what hurts the most right now is my heart, because just like I couldn’t
see the papercut, you can’t see my broken heart either, and it is bleeding heavily.
Because of you.
And I can’t seem to find a bandage big enough to heal the
hole you left in my dying heart.
I am so happy that my poem was selected as a daily. That is so unbelievable on so many levels. Thank you so very much to all of your comments, likes and reposts. It means the world to me! :)
JRS Dec 2012
We had smiles, so deep,
A love, to keep,
It lasted as long it stayed asleep.
But when it was woken,
The silence was broken,
And the weeds I sowed I must reap.

A photo on the floor,
Slipped through my sliced fingers.
The captured second swelling out of the paper,
Broken.

Scissors on the floor,
Slipped through, slicing my fingers.
I lie, blood flowing freely from my outline,
Papercut.

Scissors,
A photo,
On the floor,
Black where I cut myself out.
You’re still smiling.
I'll make sure of that.
I'm bleeding; papercut
Robin Carretti Jul 2018
The burr shaking in a
Bohemian Awakening
(Long) vintage stare how
her words were spelled
out snake tongue (Short)
The Death
Whats Up* Chap of a sport
Whats Up Doc
Going tick tock Mr. Rick
Don't trick this document
Oh! where did it drop
What!! He made the drop
dead gorgeous dress?

Born to die last lip of the spoonfuls
Cut to the chase with my chap lips
More deaths on the rise to deliver 
 
How love was the
mind controller
Hands out of the grave
couldn't hold her
Like the Boulder Chief head
Hothead on her shoulder
The better herbs of medicine
His racing car hot flame
gasoline

The Rapsody of her melody
holding on to her life
What a unique wife
Until time changes her moods
Opening up her world of flower buds
A different silence of home goods
We do believe we can be

The Champions

But the fallout of promises
Or jobs never big advances

Oh! Christ
Her chapped lips needed some
time to heal where is her next meal
The heat catching a death of cold
But staying alive the second
wind hot Ferrari Italian drive
Feeling deathly-sick faking
your death was no trick


Who disappeared never
really certain
if it was truly their
Building the fire mountain
Don't keep complaining
where the time went
Death of a cold wishes
not to die
where is our youth
Only takes one amazing birth
Lips kissing the fountain
The fortune teller booth

Who would want her chapped lips
Baby Ruth crunchy bar
down the mountain
The love confused her the
death would be
faster going once or twice up
Guilty trip or the graveyard shift
Hangover ski lift with her
Beeswax for chap lips
Taxman on the number rise flirting
What a good chap
In her coffee cup a little Robin birdie
told you

You made your own grave
time on my side or hanging
by a thread of stitches
Hats off up and away
Getting a green facelift of witches
You lived so far the good life
Feeling so wanted
he cooked your meals
He cleaned up your mess wearing
The Chef Apron 
 *He's Wanted
the sign
All over the world,
his face is wanted
The fool lips the fuller up lips
The heart went out of touch a deathly cold
She is wearing her heart-shaped lips
Doing what she is told
How the world has been
smudged with
rules
Noone knows where here

All her cracks of her lips
The cute button nose
Not Rudolph the Reindeer
The hunt for the ****** nose
Up close and personal
Lip to his lip journal
Such odds of numbers
So many even deaths
like tumblers
Through the loopers
Love and resentment
The world is a village commitment
Mcdonald Man beef and the
melted lady
cheese
whooper
You got an alert notice
The cast of spells the
fire went high
You couldn't even put it out
The death of a Salesman novice
Papercut snip computer nasty chip
The charcoal grill felt like it burned you
The fires new hires of California
The peace sign
Imagine people with no

Holy water
Whose mind is in order
The Dementia patients
Your own flame so many hot flames
The rest of the world caught a death
of a cold like an old flame

*The Goddess of Venus

The darker edge his cool hummer
Going on a shoot with chapped lips
Who is really keeping tabs

There was nothing to believe in to hold
To restore how do we balance the world
But we are not Gods
Chapped lips caused
such an alarm
All things take time then
it's in harm's way
Someone will understand to pay
Like a settlement
Deathly gray hairs on the pavement
Getting hurt but the best Godly soil
is still their like dirt
There was no reception hell broke
loose riot
Everything was naked sound
No time to sing a duet to
feet on the ground love couplet

That snow drift fall on your face
Who will be where you are in
the next century place

Perhaps your last picture
before you die
How the singer live on
to be remembered
  Why are we not discovered
Can we be saved from redemption
Like you have been squirted on
Like Heinz Ketchup did you catch up
To get his kiss did he feel your death of cold
But never to exist
What is on our bucket list?
This was something I thought of not everything we breath is pure that we adore
times are changing don't you feel your getting a death of a cold to think about it
Seazy Inkwell Aug 2018
Papers, Papers, Papers

Whiter than aching teeth,

Whiter than whites of tilted eyes,

Whiter than funeral wreaths.

My hands shake as I write this,
Filed away myths; Stolen lined sheets
 My index finger chained by red tapes,

words mix and ground breaks,
I'm the one the world forsakes

Yellow maize, littered leaves,
all twisted into
black ink and clean sharp white paper blades.



-------"I am in a bit of daze," I tell myself, "look at those flaccid bits;

there lay the logs who use to be the jungle of my childhood dreams."

------"Don't be amazed," I replied, "these leafless branches and twigs are for 
your Papier-Mâché degrees."


So I listen to my second self once,

the more logical cynical satirical one,

Treading on the plot of their paper works,

playing crosswords as anxiety uncork

my thoughts turn to the bankable orcs,

just as my career forks



Maybe I should be like my mother,

Marking numbers on a deck of cards-- waltzing with Chance.

Maybe I should be like my father,

Toiling for some rich men's grandson-- seething in Trance.

Maybe I should be like the Other,

Going along with the system-- thanking myself

beneath a cap, a diploma, a piece of paper.



I wore these books like bank notes tuxedoes,

I was promised the world by the credits I borrowed.

Must I go along with the mechanism of their game,

or should I rise up against all odds

Opposing, debating, rebelling against

this bundle, this trouble, funneling me into no-tomorrows

Or must I write it all down,

in my prayers against their lawyers, who need no reminds

Or must I shred, smear, and tear the papers with my own bare hands



But what will I ever be to them, friends?

A papercut, perhaps.
congrats on your first day
Robin Carretti Aug 2018
In the faraway land,
trees smiling and nails
Not the escargot snails
Booming business sails
His name Rusty nails
Super rich paper shredding
Destroying fine print
paper and nails affair

Those hot leads faxing
The heart opens up than bleeds
What a mess misleads to
More hoarders
Trying so hard to get
over the U-S-A border
When you least expect it
Being searched papercut body

Like Honey Bee without
Hair like a beehive
foxy lady
No Jive rock paper scissors
Twisted sisters also drying up
All lines and spot
like a dark romance
Cheetah
Not the Samson and
Deliah race
Millionairess place
Became a swamp
Forest of racers
Super moon Gump
Lady and the *****
I am Instagram Disney Pixstar
Getting looks by far
Superwomen nailed her
With Starwars
European fellows

Soft clouds daze-like fun yellow
Emotionally their crying
Broken one scattered piece
of glass, please I see something
to smile about
Super rich why do they get
the VIP pass laughing
He's the roundabout
Someone with love handles
Can we handle all this
Getting drinks and hot lady
winks hit or miss
Racing their motorcycles
Dark glove handles
What Harley Davidson cycles
Is that your best reaction trying
Mirror my mirror on the wall
I am not buying it super
rich mechanic
The only one chosen mirror
She feels ******
Love can give you tumors
Dissect you who will direct you
You don't feel this is your time
The sunny side of the street
Sunnyside eggs over easy

The Speakeasy
Your hair of ringlets **** wavy
Did he nail your darker side beat
Bird up your nest feeders heat
Don't break me up to fall
The phone rings dingaling
Spiritual candles witch is dead
Your mind is somewhere else
instead
Just make your silk ties of the bed
Tied to your ankle I love you
How your hearts just dangle
"Having a nail full because you're single"
Were all linked into something
Yodeling, not the business
of smuggling
Knocking on heavens door
Super rich marble black and white floor
Hammering nails in the cabin
He's fishing the hooks how it fits together
hugging
Going up the staircase to heaven
What a big cliff-hanging nail diver

Zippety Zepellin*
Songs whole lotta love
How you've been nailed in
the blackout
Not a piece blackout cake
Canarsie at the pier
Out of nails, the darkness hits me
Bend over nails like the devil more rivals
Never to be resentful
Always pray to be needful
Her face value of her smile
Being poor her soul
stepped on

Too many men, not enough nails
But they got their thrills
New York City construction
worker
He's wiped out being hammered
nails hot drills
Such poorly written emails

Her heels got stuck
No stars to shine *Rusty bar
Starbucks

Her mind was a
bulletproof vest  
"Jane and *****"
"Plain Janes" movie cut
Of paper dolls
Being Nailed Bunny hunt
of tricks
But all weapons he nailed her the best*

Blood stem thorns
Italian love horns
Robin Redbreast tweet text
What holds us together
French **** nails
Fountain of golden coins

Lion heads or tails the door
Back to spam ham of emails
Super rich we may never be
But New York will always
be my kind of town
He nailed it so
many times

New Yorker super rich talker
Like a perilous time super
rich food delicious
Pygmalion how we nail our nation
Super Rich, I rather have a rich blend of my coffee and savor all the rich tones  I tune who wants to hammer the nails that not a girl wanting to have fun flavor my music all sounds. So much higher than anyone with money I love my honey on my face to the Spa Tra La La that's super rich it sticks
Ankit J Chheda Nov 2012
I searched for you for a lifetime,
It felt like the impression of your being rested in my soul’s memory,
I never had to know you to know who you are,
But was it something of how I wanted it to be?
Was it just a figment of my imagination?
I feel my want for you put my senses in illusion,
Showed me colours in the world of grey,
Because I refused to see more than my desire,
I lived in my bubble of lies,
But the day when the price to pay came,
I finally told my heart what the rest of me knew,
That you were never mine to have,
You always belonged to someone else,
I will break my smile for some time,
Lock myself in a box and grieve,
Till the day come when I again learn to smile,
When I see you in another face,
And pretend I know her like I really knew you/And think I know her like I really knew you
Keep turning the pages despite the paper-cut
Lia Nov 2016
you are nothing more than a papercut, he said
you sting for just a second before you are forgotten
i'm looking for a hurricane,
an unforgettable, brutal hurricane of a woman

i am not a hurricane, i said
but all hurricanes do is lift you up by the roots
destroy everything around you
& leave you soaking wet, lonely & upside down

i know, he said
but that's all i want
You're a papercut
Only when I look at you
Does it hurt
Daniel Dec 2019
"Poor thing", I said when he got a papercut, he said I could blow on it,
he wasn't talking about the cut.
Not so innocent.
...Of the thoughts that
make up the madness in my
head
there's one that stirs every
bit of
sanity
left in my soul
And I try to find the calm
that I used to know
But I
get angry trying to find it in the
middle of the confusion
Why
I wonder
of all the things I know and
those things that I
thought I know
this would create a nightmare that
drags my soul towards a
road under the scorching sun
I thought
hangover of regrets were the worst
but obviously they are
not...
Mek
Feb22.13
Theodore Bird Feb 2015
Notches in her spine,
     bruised hard and in between.
Her sharp red hair,
     torn from the root and in clumps around your feet.
Blood pooling in your mouth,
     the drops look different on your sheets than they do on her skin.
Fluttering doves on the windowsill,
     afternoon sunlight and pressed flowers in books you know belonged to him.
Charcoal smudges darker than shadow,
     along the crease in your thigh and her shattered scapula.
Papercuts line the soles of her feet,
     and his teeth swallow you whole.
Robin Carretti May 2018
No time for having

withdrawals_
All friendship
click
Lets 
 Click-bank it

Gratitude
so thanks

Just mail it
My mind
chocolate
clustered
Wounded
like a
bullet
_

Postcard
Like
E- Allen Poe
related

Polluted by
Naked Gun
My heart was
fully loaded

"My Psyche"

Glossinidae so
****** "Red"

Women Wartime
she knits

Wildflowers
in her bed
He was more
worried
about the
postcard

Split Banana
personality
Plain Monkey
***
Crazy on Sunday

Sundae's
on Fridays
Yes we have no
bananas
Postcards laid
T-L-C cared for
cabana

But Gina
Loco?
Crazy bridge
Lollobrigida
Postcards
Just
Like Lazy
Susans
Georgiana
Or Brianna
Bella Bella

Leaving notes
with few
good men
Nicholsons
Nicole with
her Kidman

Construction
hard paper
Snip here
Pulled into his
psyche
All cliche's
The fondue
French talk
face to face
Jack snapped
beanstalk

In front, words
fingered
Her words
of roue'
Catch up with
Ketchup
Pretty but Petty
petticoats
"Billy Goats"
Titanic ships
Beguiled
by
him

Cottage home
bacon bits
of
Salad postcards
from
Egypt
The holy land of
Mohammid
Dancing like an
Egyptian

Rumi
of all
Gods
in vain
Your so
vain I betcha
you think
the
postcards
about ya

"Psyche Monday"
Coming to grips
(Girl Friday)
versus
(Man Friday)
with his lips,

The Postcard
postpartum
depression
((What Moves))
on my hips
Strawberry
jam and
my biscuit
"His Girl Scout"
recruit
Being pursued
shortcake
So ironed
longed for

Postcards
floating
through
"Spa dream"

Highlighted
*
Crazy in love
hallucinating
being flirtatious

Oneself
But she doubted
therefore
My psyche
wanted more
(Danger=Hunger)
after you
Darling
Civil war
Loves don't finally
meet someone
They are in each other
all the time-----

Double crossed-Star

Trying to pass the bar

Fair lady or the
distinguished
Gentleman

"Aircraft"
Postcards came with
ownership
Bombs stay funds

So Psyche
The future
Be smart
"Smartphone"
Like a rope and
silvered computer
links
The chain- chain gang

The train blue-skying
Crazy skywriting
A strange device
(UFO) now BOO
requiem in a dream
Royal lips
A plus postcard
Deeply within
The hundred's
of lovers tongue
Going once but twice,
The Postman stamps
psychic
"Auction house
My postcard
Peanuts and
Charmed by Charlie
Brown
The Tarot elephant
pants
Double talk Parrot
Superbowl
the postcard
intellectual

"Hallucination Beware"
Strong accusation to
compare

An app "Activation"
Star Wars  may the force
be with you one and
only card
British fine tea guards

The love red tip
matches
The new
postcard
the
new black
Mary Mack
Stamped and
smacked
Smashbox eyes
like crazy lunatic

(Dora Explorer)
New Orleans
Nasty stickers
Richness of bourbon
Sweet Caroline
Graphic art turban
8 sides
of the moon

Such
consequences?

My hair
ponytailed
You mailed
words short
Styled pixieish

Dots.....crazy points

Oh! Gosh
The
Hoarder
of
postcards
Crazy Gorilla
Mozilla
"Queen of Sheba"
I rather walk my
Shiba Inu doggy

Miss baby jane shoes
French connection my
La Femme
Oh La La
Haha
Funnybone
I refuse to be
loved like
a postcard
Self-assurance
love is frozen
and stamina
Postcards back
in the future

((Wonder all drama))
Psyche ward she got
hammered
Stacks of postcard
Her wrist got cut
Cold cuts
Irish Spring soap
VIP Postcards RIP
Replacing her hip
Her crazy lips kissed
the postcard
her bodyguard
Those maneaters
and deadly hitters
Mega babes babysitters
To be so loved and read

Postcards speak to us
listen
Glisten
Crazy Bitch__ is in
The innie or outy
Paper towels Minny
Mouse
She cleans up
her postcards
When the postman rings
twice

Pass it on

Has it troubled you
papercut you
Was this postcard
meeting
your  card
expectation

All you?
Postcards are so nice when they get delivered but when they come to your mailbox that's another postcard. The postman becomes crazy twice so out of wack Psyched
Tallulah Sep 2013
I laughed and thought, 'you should just kiss me already."
kg Nov 2012
i prefer to brush my teeth
to the point where my gums bleed
and pull the floss down hard
between my pearly whites,
grinding the thread back and forth.

i get chills down my back
when i get a papercut
and i can see the blood
slowly come out in little round *****,
or when i rip a hangnail down my thumb
and i can see the fresh layer of skin.

my body goes numb
and my mind draws a blank
when he bites at my neck,
even better when it leaves a bruise.

the feeling i get
when his hand suddenly meets
the bare skin of my lower body
is pure ecstacy, i could only imagine
what it would be like
if my brain was on a high.

the sting and the should-be negative,
or unwanted, emotions
are what i strive for in life.
i like the feel
of the pain
but not when i'm alone.
samasati Dec 2013
I can tell you’ve never been touched
like a hurricane doesn’t matter
like 40 below or a deep papercut between your
thumb and your index
couldn’t do any more harm
than a teddybear or marigold —
but that was
before me

before me,
you’ve never been touched
and you’ve never touched
quite like
dissolving  
into the fresh dew on dawn’s grass
and you’ve never stopped
to feel your ****** like stopping to
smell the roses on a worthwhile jaunt
or the daffodils
or the lilac trees, purple and white
or to smile at a happy sunflower
like all of your little hesitancies and horrors
are of little to no caliber

before me,
you’d never go a night without at least a sip of something,
you’d never give yourself
a chance
to be yourself
in the sober light of love

you’re shy and you avoid it
but if you counted the number of empty wine & beer bottles
on your balcony,
you’d finally know
you ought to stop pouring at night
and figure out how to explore at night;
dip your fingers in gooey paint and smear every colour
on the pavement
for hours and hours
until the sun awakes
like you have the power to love

even if

it aches

and at first, it will, like frostbite,
like papercuts all over your palms,
like cartoon cliff jumps that can never **** you,
like getting fired or evicted or rejected
because remembering something
as fierce and as merciless
as love
is heartbreakingly overwhelming
for the fact that

you had

forgotten

and forgetting does not make you strong or shrewd
it’ll only ***** you over
and give you a blubbery beer belly and empty bottled balcony
and before me,
I’m pretty sure you thought your life was a tragedy
because drinking feels nice and *** releases hurt
but I’m just not interested in being with an alcoholic,
so it’s best we stop taking off our shirts.
Jonathan Witte Oct 2016
Swift nick,
red comma
on my fingertip
gives me pause.
Nathan Wischropp Jul 2016
You're as cold as a statue pleading **** me so he'll touch you while I'm forced to watch you moan his name screaming out with pain I left you don't say you're sorry I'm already bleeding from your name being called from across the room trying to run at a dead end I beg you to block me like paper I'm torn.
I hate you but, darling I love you.
Don't dial my number and tell me you're happy or talking to him. I'm better off with this picture of torture I paint for myself on the walls of regret. Forgive me while I pull the trigger.
ns ezra Apr 2013
1.
friday morning at the beach, you've got a pocket full of change and a stone in each fist, a mood ring on your *******, wind-brushed all purple, la la la. slowly now i drift across a world of all-blue and even from here i can read you right through and through: i know you and i know you want to pull me up from beneath the waves and cut me open, crawl inside my sea-weathered carcass and sail my skin out to god knows where, crooning to the heavens, la la la, la la la.

2.
gathering rain in the stoup of my cupped palms, carving your name at the base of every tree, you are a hymn, you are a prayer, you're in my garden dressed all in grey and you wont let go; i'm running and running, bruised to the bone, struggling to breathe. summer is here—the locusts are singing. the sky's pure gold. wont you say hello?

3.
its a papercut day, a hairs-breadth day, and i'm perched on the back of your bike like a splash of young love—a raincoat and a red-shirt and a pretty mouth and nothing more. i put my arms around you and squint up into the sun, watching an august shower find its bearings, and we hit a bump in the road as the rain hits us and you swear and you swear and i breathe into your ear and we keep on going, bird-calls in your mouth and clouds in mine: la la la, la la la…
rusty shacks Jun 2013
For my autopsy, there will be a crowd around my corpse, layed flat upon a dinner table so when they cut into me the dogs know they're in for a feast. I want them to use a pen to open my chest, they'll find my heart over stuffed with love-poems, to feed int oa machine that will determine my exact cause of death. They will find so many vessels clogged with grudges, half-truths, my sons generation will need a triple bypass.

I want them to drag that scalpel across my skin like "Is this how [x] made you feel?", open up my stomach and find enough swallowed pride to lead a thousand men to their doom in some ugly battlefield, not enough paycheck stubs to make my bank stop calling, a note I was going to leave 35 years later when I hung myself in some office cubicle, and some expired tags to a license plate, because I couldn't get the **** out of here.

I want them to speak into tape recorders and scribble on clipboards, open up my lungs that look like the crumpled up cellophane you toss away from a pack of smokes and find all the breath I've held for someone else so the atmosphere can take one big inhale, and choke.

I want them to document the burns and cuts on my hands, her skin was like a stove-top you forgot you left on, her hair full of briar and the finest papercut edges, someone said they were good looking hands but they've done some ugly things, the calluses look like shields, so even when I open up my palms, my guard isn't down.

For the final ceremony they can quarter me because the world has dissected and separated me, I hope my tendons are used to tie together some little girls swingset so I can finally feel all this stres and strain is for someones benefit.

They can take my arms and hands, put em to work to pay off my debt to a government grant like "Nobody smokes on the night shift?" Are you kidding me? Take my lungs too.

They can take my legs and feet and give them to a paraplegic, watch him become an olympic athlete, because my legs are toned and trained from all the dreams I've chased. Maybe someone else can pull these ******* past a finish lane.

I hope they drain all of my blood and use it to fill a thousand pens, and I could save a few good people some strenuous heartbeats, put a little bit of the sandmans real good **** on some bloodshot eyes, hand out some cookies and juice to get the sugar flowing, because everybody bleeds when they write.

Give my heart to a girl so she can write down all her problems and stupid inside jokes on it, and toss it to a corner of her room where she lays down from exhaustion, forget it in her car, at her friends house, on the counter of a desolate library. When she finds a heart with a little more polish, a lot less IOU's and a LOT LESS tolerance to being used, she'll know how to keep it in mint condition, because no amount of life insurance on full coverage, the interest rates skyrocketing through the roof and ironically digging you a hole, can cover the bill, when a heart breaks.

For my autopsy, there will be a crowd around my corpse, anticipating the nap of a vulture with a full stomach, oh and right- about my brain? Good luck with that, their hands will look like someone caught them stealing, and **** the rainforest they're gonna need some toothpicks, I don't even care about the leftover pieces-- but no amount of shiny surgical tools or a practitioners 10 year medical degree funded by the slack jawed desire to make people pay for a check up none of need, will be able to dissect my soul.
robin Mar 2014
stop talking about god.
you told me you dont believe,* he said.
whats the point of mourning something that was never there?
[its not that i don’t believe,] i said or apologized.
[it’s more that i can’t.]
i wanted to believe in a god that would sell my bones to an artist
to make something more beautiful.i volunteered myself
to every altar i could find,
laid at the feet of the sky till i learned that i am a ******* holocaust.
im a burnt offering  no god would claim.
im covering up my body and pretending it doesnt exist.
strangers grab my waist and i want to be sick.i want to spit acid
like a snake.my friends say im too kind for my own good.
i knew what he wanted but i talked to him anyway
cause he said please.
i always expect to be saved.
suffering doesnt feel real.
i know how you think of me but i talk to you anyway, and
i know who loves me and who
doesnt care,
but id like to know that someone hates me the way i do,
(maybe we could bond over
mutual enemies.)
last night i was sick. last night i puked in my father's garden.
you say you can tell when my smiles are fake so then
why do you just laugh along?
it is two am,
i am at a park by my home,
im waiting for a text from you but it doesnt come
i am a geode.split me open. all you'll find inside is salt.
im sleeping on hardwood floors because the word 'bed'
is still a synonym for 'crime scene,'
'earthquake zone,'
'tsunami warning'.
the world shook last week and i ran to the coast
watching for tidal waves.
i needed god.i screamed to the sky.i committed all the sins i could, but,
stubbornly,
god continued to not exist.
i needed god but god did not need me.i am using past tense to forget that today,
i stole a rosary and nailed it to my wall.
my voice cracks when i shout that i,
i am strong,
i am invulnerable.
there are fences i do not want to scale and doors i do not want to open.
did you break me?did you unmake me?
or did you just taxidermy me,
freeze me in that time,
and all i am now is the organs you threw out,
the heart and guts you didnt need.
i have not suffered; i do not suffer,
i am nerveless and numb.i am a scarecrow,
i do not care when you pick out my button eyes.
you're a papercut and i test knives for a living.
a bruise on the knuckles of a girl who keeps
punching the walls.
a splinter in my palm and i just broke my jaw.
you were just the starting gun and ive been running alone,
slow like through sand,
like a nightmare.
i dont dream anymore, i just
replay jumbled memories, i cant tell
if im asleep or awake.
im at a funeral and im
sketching your face on the back of a napkin;
a ****** composite.
all my family has to say is she'll be a heartbreaker, that one.
they're gonna be crying over her.

my mother tells me its a compliment.
its three a.m. and she asks me why im awake and i
mumble something into the blankets about impossibility.
we're interpreting the bible and he's on the other side of the room,
he's staring at his desk or his hands or nothing at all.
i'm on the roof of some building and im writing a poem and
every time i talk about you you're someone new.  
there was an earthquake while i slept but i pretended it was my heart, i
didnt clean up the broken glass
on the floor.  
i compare myself to natural disasters to absolve myself when really
im a pyromaniac in my own burning home,
i keep digging graves in my backyard and ive finally fallen in.
it’s a matter of fate, an act of god, i wont fix myself but
at least i have an excuse.
its like there are nettles in my arms caressing the nerves.
its like all the false confidence in the world cant change the way
every muscle in my body is clenched so hard
they’ve compressed to stone.
its like i am medusa and ive been alone with only mirrors
for far too long.
ive given up on being eloquent.
ive given up on making sense,
i am not articulate or intelligent or sensible and i was never meant to be an actress.
this poem is an emetic
and the bezoar you left in me will not remain.
its always like this
robin Nov 2014
and now i dont even ******* know how to care for myself because i was never told this could happen to me,
i wasnt supposed to get sick. i wasnt supposed to get sick.
all my clipped nails, my chipped teeth piling up like letters at an empty house,
spilling from the mailbox, a papercut waterfall.
the car sputters & stops. the pen scratches without ink and i try to read what a different version of me wrote,
what a younger self thought was poetry.
my mouth is empty but my pockets are full -
pepper spray/my tía's ring/a lighter i never use.
a lighter kept for strangers, for burning dry leaves, old letters,
my own tongue because blisters make it feel fuller, less hollow.
skinny lips, strong teeth, black tongue sharp and sleeping.
never had a cavity.never broke a bone.bandaging my feet before the blisters form, what do i do now?
you took my hand.
you took my hand.
you took my ******* hands. in a california summer,
dry golden grass like a wildfire dare, you said please don't leave me,
it's drought season and i'm choking on my spit,
you're taking all the rings off my fingers. you're swallowing my tía's ring.
does it taste like her cigarettes?does it taste like my sweat?
ive been thinking about you, you've been on my mind:
how do you burn a sunken bridge?
its broken but the the pieces lie heavy below the water,
twisting the current.
how do you open a letter five years unread?
avoided/ignored/forgotten as it slides onto the floor.i'm so afraid that ill never respond,
lay here till i petrify, a living thing turned stone.macerated in my own ******* self-pity,
dripping blame from gaping pores. you did this to me, you broke me,
you poured lead in my ears you left me deaf and afraid,
i just want to feel absolved,
it's not my fault im sick. its not my fault i cant fix myself, its not my fault i dont try -
to try and fail is worse than to surrender before it starts.
excise the shame, cauterize the wound.call it a battle scar,
a mark of bravery and survival,
not a coward's brand, not the mark of cain.
killed your brother. slaughtered your counterpart, your mirror image,
an alternate you where you made different choices,
the ones that made you a good person and not a tumor,
bloated scourge in what could have been a healthy life.
empty fortress decayed behind the walls, i didnt build these to keep you out, i swear,
i just wanted to flesh myself out.
boundaries building up an empty breath,
making me appear more than i am, feel greater than i could ever be, but when you get inside there's nothing.
that's not my fault.thats not my fault. some people are born forests,
vast expanse of redwoods, moss softening the air;
some people are born exhales.
breathed out and dissipated.  
less than a lack.taking nothing; making only a still room,
stuffy air encased like innards; its funny how just a sigh can make me feel like im faking it
even though im the only one there,
even though i can still feel the ache in my skull,
eyelashes stuck to the palms of my hands.how does it feel not doubting life?
how does it feel to know in five seconds, air will swell your chest again?im on unsure footing,
a crumbling ***** (i know its just me.i know im being paranoid,
chill out you said i held my breath while you climbed dont fall dont fall oh god)
when did this happen?who poured fear into me like
swampwater in a wineskin,
never feared falling when i was young.
i just want to not hate myself but i guess thats a pipe dream,
******* stupid, ******* useless ******* incorporeal ******* fake laugh when theres no one to hear,
fighting spiders for the right to sleep. (do your friends know youre a liar?
******* traitor, dropping love from burning hands: your silver tongue is tarnished,
youve been vomiting again,
stomach acid eating your throat from within. can you stop?)
i just want to stop.
theres a ******* burning sun in my chest and god i know i should feel lucky but i dont wanna ******* live i just want to SURVIVE,
what ******* good is living if i just burn myself out by the time i reach 25?
im scared to die but im ******* killing myself and i cant ******* stop,
i just want to sleep but theres still a bite mark on  my wrist from my own ******* teeth there are so many people i feel sick,
they talk so loud,
i feel like i could ******* disintegrate
******* degrade into dust please i just want to leave but i dont want to be alone, let me stay dont let me burst,
i want to be so skinny my bones bruise my skin,
i want to be so strong i could ******* rip myself apart, dont lie to me.
dont love me just sit next to me touch me tell me im alive.
im alive, right?im real im here im not a dusty phantom,
gasping ghost ripping oxygen into incorporeal lungs,
god i want to SCREAM just so i know im not ******* DEAD past the skin is there any sensation past the surface
i want to wear my ******* throat raw tear my muscles to shreds to know i can feel something that isnt shallow surface nerves, PLEASE!GOD!
make my lungs burn make my bones crack i want to feel something that i know is REAL prove im real prove im not an empty shell please im still alive but bites dont go past the skin,
i want to see my ******* heart pulse like the realest part of me,
proof i need proof i want faith i want to believe in unproven things, how can i ******* believe im real?
im ******* faking it just like everything else,
bluff till its true but i never ******* learned how to be TRUE I NEVER LEARNED TO LIVE PAST THE SKIN and if you peel it back all you'll ******* find is
rot,
gangrene, necrotic flesh and electric fear, dont ******* touch me i feel like i could ******* explode,
i feel crushed compressed into a space too small for my body and itll crack any second.
please ******* punch me in the gut. please ******* crack me open i dont ******* trust myself to keep my heart beating,
please rip it out im ******* faking it!!
faking laughs for an empty space faking fear for phantom spiders and thoughts of death, im ******* faking it but how do i ******* STOP
I DONT WANNA LIVE LIKE THIS BUT IM SCARED TO ******* DIE
Quinn Jul 2016
As his mother tucked him in and gave him a kiss on the cheek, he reminded her to leave the door open. Hands stained with cotton sheets and nursery rhymes still stuck in her teeth, she smiled and said "the door is always open." He continuously assured her that it wasn't the dark he was afraid of but the hall light stayed on until he was 9. As he blew out pink candles on his 10th birthday cake, the echoes of mocking classmates burned threw his lips. He thought maybe thats what it felt like to sin. The same feeling he gets when he grasps the doorknob of a church building, the same feeling as when he kissed his first kiss within bare walls, the one that broke skin when he fell for live ash in the back row of biology class. The black lungs on display resembled his, only cigarettes werent the cause this time. The air between the two of them was so tainted with moral, it became toxic.
A melody of slammed doors played on repeat, screaming for repentance but no one seems to recognize this hymn. The chorus won't harmonize. Jesus loves me this I know, for my mother told me so...WAIT. Thats not how its supposed to go. Paper cut tongues slurring same *** through biased mouths is not a religion. Protesting through scriptures against thy neighbor, he locks the door. And the church is silent.
Nina Apr 2015
I imagine parting your lips would feel like dipping my hands into a bag of uncooked
rice,
starchy sweet,
falling between my fingers, yielding.

I imagine you holding my papercut wrists, my papercut heart together with trembly
hands, scotch tape and just enough pressure to fill up the spaces,
just for a little while.

Baby girl, you’d say, when I’d consider asking you to help me pick up the pieces.
Carrying them carefully, like a bird’s egg,
like the day no backward glances were cast,
eyes set, head set, a measured pace.

Stop it, dewdrop, as I held my breath, waiting for the pieces to drop again,
tiny cracks multiplying into a pattern like the afghan at the foot of my bed,
the way my hands splintered when you held them in yours.

Listen: imagine the landscapes that fill our bodies--
the curves where I would nestle my head,
the warm folds where I’d hide,
the sinkholes and leaks you’d try to patch up, to stop up.

Listen to me, honeysuckle girl.
Your elbows are too sharp,
like the point of blades that fit so snugly into your hand—
that feel like they were once part of you, but left;
no backward glances cast.

Imagine this love-crumb:
let me file you down,
I like it when you’re soft.
Then it doesn’t feel like you’ll shatter when I touch you—
Listen,
just fold up, baby girl.
Sawyer Aug 2019
She teeters on the cliffside,
She scans the ground below.
She searches the wind like a chapter book,
For what, she doesn’t know.

With one foot off the edge, she stands,
She looks around and sighs.
She thumbs through pages, slits her fingers,
Bleeds through ink and lies.

Tipping off the edge, she knows
She doesn’t have the guts
To live a life where she’s never free
From the sting of papercuts.
This is me, Rachael.
I would die from a papercut and blame it on the finger.
I would argue with an eraser if the words didn't look right.
I would tell the moon to shine all day just to ******* the sun.
I see colours in my imagination; my dreams are wild and beyond comparison.
I tend to love too hard and quickly get burnt by the one I flew so high for.
I read too much and believe in past lives.
I forgive but don't forget.
My trust is willing but protects my heart like a guardian of fate.
I will be silent when someone talks ****, because I don't take fools gladly, and a wise man never responds to defecation of verbal ignorance.
I willingly argue my point in my head til you know I have analysed my response.
Nothing is taken lightly.
I would argue that the road is really hard and quite weary, and curse my boots as they hit the hallowed ground.
I am impetuous, I rush in, I seek thrill and danger.
Hedonism is my game; I play deftly with an air of mastery.
I am sensitive. As skin is to the weather. A gust of harsh wind could ******* away.
This is me; only a slight composition of who I am, and what I am made of.
And I make no apology.
cg Mar 2014
From your Father,
When I grew up I lived in a small brick house that was cold in the morning no matter how many times your grandfather yelled at the fireplace, the world never let him dream, he had to earn it.
You will never meet him.
You will never be the small reminders and the soft tug on the bottom of my sternum helping me sleep at night, I will give you string and yarn asking you to weave silk and save me from the winter.
Your hands will be overflowing with apologies, the sink will always be filled with water that looks like it is pulsing at an open wound, and the gauze from your mother's gentle throat is never going to stop you from leaking out how sorry you are.
I was not raised to be what you need.
I am not going to love you the right way.
When you are 7 I am going to tell you that the way you carry yourself isn't tall enough, for your 9th birthday I will give you a mustard seed and a pocketknife and will ask you to grow cherry blossom trees throughout our back yard and in all the pastures of the city, and cut each of them down the very next day, and THEN I will tell you how to be a man.
When you are 17 you are going to cry so hard that God mistakes your mouth for the trumpets that were used to tear down Jericho and when your walls come apart I am going to color your heart with footsteps leaving the room.
I will show you how to miss a warm shower, how to pretend so hard your head cracks and your skull looks
like the coldest bowl of tomato soup I ever gave you.
You will not see that this whole time I have been staining your windows to see things in a better light, even if it is not clearer in the afternoon.
This is my blessing.
From your Mother,
I was raised with ***** hands and the only person who I ever looked at in the morning and loved back was the sun.
Your grandfather taught me how to ride a horse, and cover up a bruise, how to scrub blood stains out of my white blouses, and a whiter conscious, and how to grieve.
Oh how he taught me to grieve.
You will never meet him.
When you are 10, I am going to write down all the sins of your father on a piece of paper, slit your throat with it, and tell you that it's just a papercut, I will show you that faith does not move mountains, it simply makes them smaller.
You will stand up, shake the dust off your knees, and learn to clench your fists without worrying who will hear you.
I will try, but I will not love you correctly.
When you are 13 I am going to show you that what you see is not always on your side, you can love someone harder than you can stab them, but people are going to worry about ****** knuckles before they take a second look at a bruised heart, they're going to forget which one is more important.
I am going to tell you to forgive them, and I will never truly mean it.
Maybe I am sorry.
I am going to flirt with death until it blushes so hard that the blood from it's cheeks flows down to it's chest and gives it a heartbeat.
I am going to make you understand that GOD needs you just as much as you need Him, and there is power in prayer, in the way God might not be worth as much when people aren't giving Him their attention.
I am going to help you need less of the world, but a little more from people.
Your words will be full and deep, but never your pockets.
This is my blessing.
ryn Mar 2017
This anger...

Feels like a ball of uncontrollable energy that spins treacherously in the pit of my stomach.

It is unbound and reaches out forcefully in every axis. It is self-sustaining. And it consumes...
All of me...

It's doesn't want to be displaced, or swept under the rug for the umpteenth time. It doesn't want to be cajoled or calmed. It doesn't want to be coaxed into thinking that it does not need to rear its ugly head because I believe I have a handle on things; which I clearly do not.

It knows me too well and will not take it lying down.

It wants acknowledgement and it wants to speak.

It wants to speak in a low guttural voice for the sheer purpose of intimidation.
It wants grow in figurative size to assert its validation.
It wants to absorb every form of negativity and use it to fuel the fight.
It wants to take the faintest pin-***** or papercut to the most painful stab in the heart and use them...
Harness them and then...
Explode in a hundred-mile radius.

This anger is real...
And it has had enough of sitting on the bench.
Now it wants a piece of the action...

And this time I let it.
Jewel M C Mar 2015
You were the first boy to tell me you loved me, over a text. Less than two months later I broke up with you, over a text. But you were sweet, I promise. A week after you told me you loved me you finally kissed me, & it was almost on the top of the ferris wheel but saved by the bell, your phone rang (vibrated) & then you almost got away with just kissing me on the cheek that night. But then you ran after me when I was going to head home & kissed me for the first time in the woods & I'll never forget how weird it feels to have someone's lips pressed against yours for the very first time.

2. It was a month after you asked me to be your girlfriend that we met. & the day we finally did I kissed you & you almost fainted because it was your first. You didn't say much & you wouldn't take your eyes off me, it was nice to be admired like you admired me, but I had to leave, I hope you understood why & that you're happier with her now.

3. On Valentine's Day I gave you your first kiss & probably a heartattack along with it, the way you looked at me then I'll never forget, but it was like kissing my brother.

4. After school one day I couldn't take it anymore & I just kissed you. You jumped back & had yourself a heartattack, something I commonly gave I guess. It was after you that I learned to be more careful, because your words cut like a knife, even after we stayed good friends back then.

5. It was so obvious how you staged that night, with the oblivion & the sunset & the music, but I'll admit, it was a very sweet first kiss & it almost makes me completely forget how terrible it was. But we kissed for almost a year after that until you gave me the last one, & I count that night as the last, not that stupid summer after where you dropped my heart again & used me. I'll never forget how hard it hurt to hear you tell me you loved me for the last time after you told me that I was perfect & kissed me with a pair of lips that sliced mine deep. I spent forever after that picking at my lips trying to remove every painful papercut your last words sealed with a kiss gave me.

6. I remember how drunk I was in love with the idea of us over a year before I got to kiss your lips. But when we kissed I felt nothing but lust, & it felt good then. It was too soon after the pain for me to remember how to kiss again, & you had to teach me, & then you taught me something else.

7. I dreamt about kissing your lips for almost every night of high school. & it was four & a half years later that I got to taste them. We probably could've fallen in love, y'know, but I'm glad we didn't. It was what it was & I'll take the memory with me, but that's all that was meant to happen between us.

8. My favourite number, & by far my favourite kiss. It was a blur the day you kissed my lips, but it was perfect. I guess my eyes were wide open but I can't remember a thing but shaking so bad I almost forgot how to work my lips. You were a brand-brand-new taste & I can only just remember the roller-coaster of thought from that day, freaking out about where it was all going & how to kiss someone new, for real. But I've been kissing you for over a year now, & my God, baby, I can't help but admit I'd sure love to kiss those lips for the rest of my life
Hailyn Suarez May 2017
I've forgotten the last time I had to memorize
oh wait, it was today.
I memorized so I didn't have to plagiarize
and I plagiarized because I had no idea what to say.

instead of studying, I was out at play
breaking ankles instead of pencil tips.
made some gnarly 3 pointers, I might say,
all I could think about were my papercut lips.

the keyboard fights me with whips
I'm trying, I am really trying,
but I'm collapsing, like sunken battleships.
Well, at least I'm not dying.
written before finals crushed my pencils
...Falling stars do cry
with the fallen wings
of forgotten angels
A teardrop
blankets the night of
a cold embrace
plunging into the calm with
a thorn from once a red rose
Ripples distorted
every reflection of a dream
quickly fading with the wind
and madness roars an outcry
with the lunacy of a lightning
like daggers in the emptiness
of a papercut in the heart
Pain can never be mended
by a single drop
of a nostalgic whiskey
and holding on to a candle flame
is worse
amidst a storm...
Mek
Jan09
Eyithen Mar 2020
I am hurt
But not in the way when you scrape your knee
And not in the way when someone irrevocably betrays your trust
I am hurt in a way that cannot be explained

I am hurt
But not in the way when you break a bone
And not in the way someone spits out stinging words
I am hurt in a way that makes your heart beat just a little bit faster

I am hurt
But not in the way when your muscles ache with soreness
And not in the way when someone tells you they don’t love you anymore
I am hurt in a way that makes my stomach twist and churn

I am hurt
But not in the way that makes you grit your teeth in pain
And not in the way that makes one shut themselves out from the world
I am hurt in a way that makes my chest tighten and constrict until I can’t breath

I am hurt
But not in the way that can be solved with the pop of a pill
And not in the way that a teenage girl who is new to love does
I am hurt in a way that makes me dig my fingernails into my palms so as to quell the bristling tears threatning to spill.

I am hurt in a way that can’t so easily be explained away  as a papercut or with a smile
I am hurt in a way that comes with the lying words “I’m Fine.”
I am not fine.

Today I hurt.
Today I want to cry.
Today I feel alone. Left Out.

There is no rhyme or reason.
There is no starting point.
There is nothing I can say to explain away the pain except that it’s there.

I am hurt.
Nina Dec 2014
I imagine parting your lips would feel like dipping my hands into a bag of uncooked rice,
starchy sweet,
falling between my fingers, yielding.

I imagine you holding my papercut wrists, my papercut heart together with trembly hands, scotch tape and just enough pressure to fill up the spaces,
just for a little while.

Baby girl, you’d say, when I’d consider asking you to help me pick up the pieces.
Carrying them carefully, like a bird’s egg,
like the day no backward glances were cast,
eyes set, head set, a measured pace.

Stop it, baby girl, as I held my breath, waiting for the pieces to drop again,
tiny cracks multiplying into a pattern like the afghan at the foot of my bed,
the way my hands splintered when you held them in yours.

Listen: imagine the landscapes that fill our bodies--
the curves where I would nestle my head,
the warm folds where I’d hide,
the sinkholes and leaks you’d try to patch up, to stop up.

Listen to me, baby girl.
Your elbows are too sharp,
like the point of blades that fit so snugly into your hand—
that feel like they were once part of you, but left;
no backward glances cast.

Imagine this, baby girl:
let me file them down,
I like it when you’re soft,
like me.
Then it doesn’t feel like you’ll shatter when I touch you—
Listen,
just fold up, baby girl.
Sam Knaus Dec 2014
All hipbones and collarbones,
Size 1 and 0, long flowing hair and gauges,
thigh gap and flat stomach,
you are beautiful.
All dry skin and yellow teeth,
Size 12 and 13, short, plain hair,
touching thighs and rounded stomach,
I am "beautiful" to everyone but myself.
I will be strong.
I will be stronger.
I will exercise more,
I will eat less,
I will be thinner.
Once I've lost 40 pounds,
then I might get the help everyone says
I so desperately need,
diet healthily
and work with somebody.
Until then, I will suffer through...
...because that shows strength,
and eating shows weakness,
weakness in myself.
Calories should be a foreign substance,
not an old friend,
chewing and swallowing sometimes hurts worse
than a **** lemon-juice papercut.
800 calories over my budget every **** day
when my budget is already too high?
That shows no strength.
500 calories under?
THAT shows strength.
Shows willpower.
Shows endurance.
That is what will make me thinner.
I'm setting my budget to 500 instead of 1000,
because hey,
less is more, right?
I was just writing to write at this point. The first part I wrote the other day, about my best friend. The "I will be stronger" portion, I wrote now.
AK93 Jan 2016
You make me forget what the point of this is. I've become as dull as the razor blades that you used to use upon your wrists, so I can barely leave a mark that won't be forgotten or still felt tomorrow, and I know if I walk away there's no reason you would ever want to follow
Gale L Mccoy Jan 2018
If you ever want to
Look inside yourself
To see how your blood pumps
And the color of your flesh
Take a pen and tear
words into paper instead
Bleed worlds and people
Scream through the mouths of others
But not through your skin
It will only scream back for more
And there is no harm in being unable
To stop a pen
Rather than a blade
always anxious Aug 2015
I think you could compare my situation to a wound.

At first it's a papercut.
Doesn't look like much.
But stings as hell.
Everyone knows that, but no one admits.

Then it turns into a cut.
Still doesn't look like much.
Stings less, but hurts more.
But it doesn't mean much it's just a cut.

And after a while it'll be a fleshwound.
Trips to the ER to get it fixed.
Everyone knowing and asking about it.
Everyone being concerned.

Then it'll get fixes and heal slowly.
But sometimes you rip it back open.
But no one notices that after a while.
You don't want them to know.

This is one of the wounds that'll never heal, there will always be a scab to pick at when you're sad.
You keep ripping it open.

But at one point you learn how to
Protect it, it'll just take a while
And It'll be hard.
But there will still be a wound.

— The End —