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Robert Guerrero Jun 2012
on her wrist they lie
even on her thighs
razorblade scars
the scars that i made

i suffocated her burdens
i drowned her screams
i relieved her pain
but the price was her heart

razorblade scars
now dress her dollish figure
threatening to extinguish
the embers of her life

i dried her tears
i conquered her fears
i sheltered her from the rain
but the price was her soul

razorblade scars
still bleeding her out
her viens will run cold
for all i did was hurt her more

i crushed her dreams
i obliterated her walls
i stitched her wounds
just to make more

razorblade scars
now dress her lifeless body
as two on her wrist
sill bleed out her sorrow

i would take it all back
i would give it all back
just to see her smile once more
but the razorblade scars keep that from me
zebra Sep 2018
have you ever seen beauty in a silky nightmare
have you  ever seen the monster of deprivation in heavens promise?

we speak of private things
we should never talk about
about vailed women
and their terrible secrets
and about myself who remains no longer a secret to myself

somewhere i went off the track
like a  daisy chain saw of honesty
to ensure you knew i was sick
a sick **** with a trick
as if i ate some ****** up hallucinogenic' s
making me spill my obsessions all over you
like some weird perfumed *****
down a swirling rainbow toilet
that turns out to be only jelly and whipped cream
wrapped in colored ribbons on cellophane tampons

i feel like  having *** or going to the toilet in public
while waving my hands up in the air
screaming yahoo i'm free
to blow to kingdom come
the temple of normalcy
you know
the church of rose gardens, cemeteries and deprivations
except of course for the sneers, smears
and self loathing vanilla demons
who wear long see through dresses and crosses
like dash board plastic virgins
with bobbing heads
that make hissing sounds about sin

i confess
i'm attracted to the darkest women
strange *******
and  ******
the stranger the better
who shake their butts
like hoodoo enchanted show girls
doing what they shouldn't do
crying and scrying like cooing moons calling
"drink me like ****** Mary
daddy **** lollypop"
all inky tats and razorblade ouchies

or
you can join those
covered in white collared black as death habits
begging the invisible *** cake in paradise
waiting for mercy and a little ****
that never comes
stuck in an empty
loveless bar of crucifixes that only serves up theology

oh baby
***** dreams do come true
pink ****** ***** gladly widen their haunches
like **** without boots
not caring if they go to hell
playin
like a joy ride of fiddle **** sticks
all freaky tongues and tingling licks
thick saliva multi lingual blow jobs
lathering flashing lipped saliva for the squirt  
with fiery wet hypodermic kisses
that make screams
like creamed upleaping lava and ash
for a million hungry sexed up twisting tongues
in occult ecstasy
fecundating shrouds of steamy clouds
in stained red black lighted rooms
with cherub crowned *****
and their drooling snatches buttered ****

eat quivering
like fowl mouthed piranhas
crying more raw meat please
while you drag your perfect person visage
into hollow caves of despair
cold and lonely

so you forlorn love struck weeping
horney pathetic scarecrow
socially engineered robots
if you want love
like heated buttery waffles with sweet jam
just give your self away like slutty putty
to lust criminals and *** addicted pervs  
until
you feel someone swallow you whole
soul and all
and lick their lips
like your their cherry pie

then look passed your
rats nest of pride and exhaustive approval list
and love them back
like free beer
bang their brains out
be their slave and make them yours
in the mad house of love
of warped shimmering mirrors, straight jackets, and squeezy insertions

and if one day they don't appreciate your imperfect perfection
if they weaponize like critic's
teach them respect
shove it where they breathe
lick your wounds
be brave
throw them in the trash bin of history
and move on

Eros and Venus
take a million forms

look around
your swimming in a giant bowl of broken hearts
hungry mouths, drenched ***** and hard *****

you whimpering little beasts
dress to ****
undress to live

its a movable feast
advice to the lovelorn young
thank you to Lora Lee for the line
" swirling toilet rainbows"
Shadow Paradox Apr 2015
-
She grew into leaves
As she wrote into her bleeding notebook
Collecting diamonds from every drip
Balancing on a crystal dream
Erasing reality
Swallowing fantasy
-
Faraway, a letter grew wings
And printed itself to the girls skin
-
Invited to Depression’s Party
She swept away her notebook
And dressed herself in poetry pearls
Ink slippers stained her feet
-
As she twirled backwards to her demise
Silver cobblestones and golden chariots
Greeted with royalty
She entered the Razorblade Ballroom
Which kissed her graciously
-
She was given porcelain razors
Covered with colorful gems
“Go ahead my lovely and dance with them”
Evil whispers filled her little head
“Suicide will be proud”
-
She began to dance with those beautiful razors
But then she saw those delicate butterflies
Fluttering gently on her wrists
She then remembered her vow
-
To never ever harm those creatures
Because if she harmed herself
Those butterflies will die
The razors fell and shattered
-
The Razorblade Ballroom
She promise to never visit again
She realizes her bad decisions
Can affect many
-
She lives her life today
Being a world wide example
To those who are hurting
Yes I remember those dark days when I spent hours in the "razorblade ballroom" struggling with depression and suicidal thoughts. These were my darkest times. I never danced in that ballroom ever since. Although I do get invitations from time to time.
Wade Redfearn Sep 2018
The first settlers to the area called the Lumber River Drowning Creek. The river got its name for its dark, swift-moving waters. In 1809, the North Carolina state legislature changed the name of Drowning Creek to the Lumber River. The headwaters are still referred to as Drowning Creek.

Three p.m. on a Sunday.
Anxiously hungry, I stay dry, out of the pool’s cold water,
taking the light, dripping into my pages.
A city with a white face blank as a bust
peers over my shoulder.
Wildflowers on the roads. Planes circle from west,
come down steeply and out of sight.
A pinkness rises in my breast and arms:
wet as the drowned, my eyes sting with sweat.
Over the useless chimneys a bank of cloud piles up.
There is something terrible in the sky, but it keeps breaking.
Another is dead. Fentanyl. Sister of a friend, rarely seen.
A hand reaches everywhere to pass over eyes and mouths.
A glowing wound opens in heaven.
A mirror out of doors draws a gyre of oak seeds no one watches,
in the clear pool now sunless and black.

Bitter water freezes the muscles and I am far from shore.
I paddle in the shallows, near the wooden jail.
The water reflects a taut rope,
feet hanging in the breeze singing mercy
at the site of the last public hanging in the state.
A part-white fugitive with an extorted confession,
loved by the poor, dumb enough to get himself captured,
lonely on this side of authority: a world he has never lived in
foisting itself on the world he has -
only now, to steal his drunken life, then gone again.

1871 - Henderson Oxendine, one of the notorious gang of outlaws who for some time have infested Robeson County, N. C., committing ****** and robbery, and otherwise setting defiance to the laws, was hung at Lumberton, on Friday last in the presence of a large assemblage. His execution took place a very few days after his conviction, and his death occurred almost without a struggle.

Today, the town square collapses as if scorched
by the whiskey he drank that morning to still himself,
folds itself up like Amazing Grace is finished.
A plinth is laid
in the shadow of his feet, sticky with pine,
here where the water sickens with roots.
Where the canoe overturned. Where the broken oar floated and fell.
Where the snake lives, and teethes on bark,
waiting for another uncle.

Where the tobacco waves near drying barns rusted like horseshoes
and cotton studs the ground like the cropped hair of the buried.
Where schoolchildren take the afternoon
to trim the kudzu growing between the bodies of slaves.
Where appetite is met with flood and fat
and a clinic for the heart.
Where barges took chips of tar to port,
for money that no one ever saw.

Tar sticks the heel but isn’t courage.
Tar seals the hulls -
binds the planks -
builds the road.
Tar, fiery on the tongue, heavy as bad blood in the family -
dead to glue the dead together to secure the living.
Tar on the roofs, pouring heat.
Tar is a dark brown or black viscous liquid of hydrocarbons and free carbon,
obtained from a wide variety of organic materials
through destructive distillation.
Tar in the lungs will one day go as hard as a five-cent candy.

Liberty Food Mart
Cheapest Prices on Cigarettes
Parliament $22.50/carton
Marlboro $27.50/carton

The white-bibbed slaughterhouse Hmong hunch down the steps
of an old school bus with no air conditioner,
rush into the cool of the supermarket.
They pick clean the vegetables, flee with woven bags bulging.
What were they promised?
Air conditioning.
And what did they receive?
Chickenshit on the wind; a dead river they can't understand
with a name it gained from killing.

Truth:
A man was flung onto a fencepost and died in a front yard down the street.
A girl with a grudge in her eyes slipped a razorblade from her teeth and ended recess.
I once saw an Indian murdered for stealing a twelve-foot ladder.
The red line indicating heart disease grows higher and higher.
The red line indicating cardiovascular mortality grows higher and higher.
The red line indicating motor vehicle deaths grows higher and higher.
I burn with the desire to leave.

The stories make us full baskets of dark. No death troubles me.
Not the girl's blood, inert, tickled by opiates,
not the masked arson of the law;
not the smell of drywall as it rots,
or the door of the safe falling from its hinges,
or the chassis of cars, airborne over the rise by the planetarium,
three classmates plunging wide-eyed in the river’s icy arc –
absent from prom, still struggling to free themselves from their seatbelts -
the gunsmoke at the home invasion,
the tenement bisected by flood,
the cattle lowing, gelded
by agriculture students on a field trip.

The air contains skin and mud.
The galvanized barns, long empty, cough up
their dust of rotten feed, dry tobacco.
Men kneel in the tilled rows,
to pick up nails off the ground
still splashed with the blood of their makers.

You Never Sausage a Place
(You’re Always a ****** at Pedro’s!)
South of the Border – Fireworks, Motel & Rides
Exit 9: 10mi.

Drunkards in Dickies will tell you the roads are straight enough
that the drive home will not bend away from them.
Look in the woods to see by lamplight
two girls filling each other's mouths with smoke.
Hear a friendly command:
boys loosening a tire, stuck in the gut of a dog.
Turn on the radio between towns of two thousand
and hear the tiny voice of an AM preacher,
sharing the airwaves of country dark
with some chords plucked from a guitar.
Taste this water thick with tannin
and tell me that trees do not feel pain.
I would be a mausoleum for these thousands
if I only had the room.

I sealed myself against the flood.
Bodies knock against my eaves:
a clutch of cats drowned in a crawlspace,
an old woman bereft with a vase of pennies,
her dead son in her living room costumed as the black Jesus,
the ***** oil of a Chinese restaurant
dancing on top of black water.
A flow gauge spins its tin wheel
endlessly above the bloated dead,
and I will pretend not to be sick at dinner.

Misery now, a struggle ahead for Robeson County after flooding from Hurricane Matthew
LUMBERTON
After years of things leaving Robeson County – manufacturing plants, jobs, payrolls, people – something finally came in, and what was it but more misery?

I said a prayer to the city:
make me a figure in a figure,
solvent, owed and owing.
Take my jute sacks of wristbones,
my sheaves and sheaves of fealty,
the smell of the forest from my feet.
Weigh me only by my purse.
A slim woman with a college degree,
a rented room without the black wings
of palmetto roaches fleeing the damp:
I saw the calm white towers and subscribed.
No ingrate, I saved a space for the lost.
They filled it once, twice, and kept on,
eating greasy flesh straight from the bone,
craning their heads to ask a prayer for them instead.

Downtown later in the easy dark,
three college boys in foam cowboy hats shout in poor Spanish.
They press into the night and the night presses into them.
They will go home when they have to.
Under the bridge lit in violet,
a folding chair is draped in a ***** blanket.
A grubby pair of tennis shoes lay beneath, no feet inside.
Iced tea seeps from a chewed cup.
I pass a bar lit like Christmas.
A mute and pretty face full of indoor light
makes a promise I see through a window.
I pay obscene rents to find out if it is true,
in this nation tied together with gallows-rope,
thumbing its codex of virtues.
Considering this just recently got rejected and I'm free to publish it, and also considering that the town this poem describes is subject once again to a deluge whose damage promises to be worse than before, it seemed like a suitable time to post it. If you've enjoyed it, please think about making a small donation to the North Carolina Disaster Relief Fund at the URL below:
https://governor.nc.gov/donate-florence-recovery
Dinosaur bones, discovered under an overturned rock. Dust-covered and forgotten photos in the attic. The rug pulled out from under us. Highway patrol of a distant creature. I woke up on the wrong side of a very terrible generation. Just when I thought all was good, it wasn’t. Giant ego ruined their reputation. Lost on the beaten path. My faith smells like ***** dishes. Heroes come and go; villains will always be. Dramatization of the fire. It’s up, up and away with a feeling of mutilated pasts. A young woman in a bad man’s dream. Keep a cool head while we enter the jungle. *****-trapped instincts. This plan was doomed from the start. Let’s go back while we still have two of our appendages. The dog stares at the door, waiting for a Drunk. We both drink, but we’re not arrogant ******. The love I have for a friend of true nature. What’s that in the shadow of the empire? A rebellion. Smoke out the rat. The back door is a fire lane. A simply-put puzzle. Razorblade Cake-Mix. The sound scared the children. Candy from a stranger, candy from a friend, both will likely **** you in the terms of very end. I’ll stand on the first fallen soldier. He doesn’t know me in the meantime. A happy face for all those once told to forget it. My dignity in a department store lost-and-found. Jump for joy, parade for unemployed.  A long line of henchmen waiting to be sidekicks. Watch where your education gets you when us dropouts change our pace. You’re better than no one, we’re better than no one, but we faced the facts about this a long time ago. Convincing isn’t working. A dark hole in the bottom of the bird-feeder. No more nourishment for your ill-advised brain.
Poetic Artiste Jul 2014
The Insecurities are flourishing,
A gorgeous garden is my mind—
But the weeds keep growing in.
Media like kryptonite—weakening my self esteem.
—Thoughts of a young child never knowing what to believe.

I lie awake in bed at night staring at the ceiling.
If only the notion could suffice in finding the words—
For the void I'm feeling in my life,
But it isn't simple.

Pure corruption of my mind,
Perfect pictures,
Flawless figures,
The images I can't erase.
Uncomfortable in my own skin—
What do I do to feel safe?

Do I drown myself in ink—to cover up the imperfections?
Instead of talking—walk and let my skin scream the self-expression?

Or do I return to the blank stare in the mirror?
The words are on repeat.
Who am I to think I’m beautiful—when I myself can’t see?
Who am I to think I'm valuable—when there is no self-confidence there?
Who am I to think I'm worthy—when I myself don't feel?

The insecurities keep flourishing.
A gorgeous garden was my mind,
But the weeds kept growing in.
Media like kryptonite—weakening my self esteem.
Thoughts of a young child,
--Never knowing what to believe.

One night as I lie awake—I hear my subconscious scream out to me.
The most attractive people do the ugliest of things,
The true beauty you want is what’s imprisoned within.
Why stop your happiness to return to a place—
—A place where you feel so alone?
Why do the tears flow?
You're killing yourself—
And you fail to realize
Your own self-doubt is the knife!
Pessimism,
The negative thoughts building inside—
They’re just as bad as the razorblade that kisses your skin as you sit in silence...
Why are you hurting yourself?
Temporary pain is only a distraction,
You were blessed and shaped by the hands of God.
What more could you possibly ask for?

Appearance is not everything.—
Stop the self-consciousness and live your life.
—acknowledge that you —are your worst —enemy...

I open my eyes.
The cries have ceased,
I return to the blank stare in the mirror.
The words are on repeat.
Who am I to think I’m beautiful—when I myself can’t see?
Who am I to think I'm valuable—when there is no self-confidence there?
Who am I to think I'm worthy—when I myself don't feel?

But it’s different this time,
My reflection speaks.
Saying no—
Who are you not to?
Your imperfections are beautiful.
Beautiful enough for the heart that is meant to love you,
Believe in yourself.
No more self doubt,
No more lost soul.

—No more insecurities flourishing,
A gorgeous garden is my mind.
No more weeds keep growing in,
Media is not my kryptonite,
No more weakening of my self esteem,
Thoughts of a young child finally unshackled —and free.
Tina Kay Grant Mar 2014
O Razorblade
What Secrets Do You Hold?
Upon The Window Pane
For
Months? Years? Days? Hours? Minutes?
Who Else's Pathetic Blood Have You Drawn Out?

O Razorblade
So Curious You Are
Up There Staring At Me
Judging Me For My Lies
You Won Though, You Touched My Skin
Right On My Wrist, A Familiar Feeling
Aren't You Supposed To Hold A Hopeless Felling When Picked Up For The First Time?
Aren't You Supposed To Release Those "endorphins" Along With my Blood?
My Brand New Room, The First Thing I Saw Was... you.
So Don't Think That I Didn't Notice You
I Don't Want You To Think That I Didn't Like You
It Would Be To Ironic For Both Of Us To Be Disliked
I Felt Happy, Like An Honest Person When You Pierced Me
Is That Weird.
Don't Feel Bad That I Washed You Before Using You As An Exorcists' Cross,
Drawing Out My Demons
I Could Tell You'd Been Someone Else's Tool
I Couldn't Risk Disease
I'm Selfish For That
You Have Probably Been Exposed To All Kinds Of Fiends, Diseases, And Emotional Pain

I'm Terribly Sorry, Dear
I'm Glad I Picked You Up Though, I Think You Are Too...
You Needed My Blood, I Had To Much.
I Gave It Up To You, Up On The Window Pane
You Weren't Judging Me, You Were Asking For My Blood.

You Helpful, Cold, Metal *******, I Love You.
Sean Flaherty Jul 2015
I don't have recurring dreams, but... right..., my dreams... recurring themes. And, if in-them, I've a ... "love-interest?" ... they've taken many shapes. The one, and-one-and-one more, who've shown up more than once, I could cough up, cry-out-over, and name. Only three come, through the old haunts, of my odd-head's hallway, Round-and-round-and-round trip. [redact] At least here, I dated her. In real-life, as-opposed, to the annals of [page 6] more depths-delusional. Did wrong [redact]. couldn't believe she was "glad I came." Care enough, to care. She couldn't-care-less. Middle-ground, Grey-areas, and misinterpretations make my skin crawl. Excepting another-day-in-April,

[big
redact]

and maybe if I sing it better this time she'll seeeeeeeeeeeeeee... "wait, Kay, Cee, and Ell?" I've noticed too, and it's cute, but a fluke. Not some-hidden-meaning. "Got a subconscious, on me," Freud couldn't pursue.

Silly, and I didn't mean to be serious, but you're starting to get a grip-on-it. The feelings may fade, but the drip-drop flow of dreams adds to the direness of my dilemma. Alas, around when she's leaving us-all, in Natick, [page 7] I began-becoming acquainted with another-animal-lover. "Any port in the storm?" Any pill, and a razorblade. "A penchant, for an interesting existence!" Next-door, the slowly-nailed-coffin! Where people are abandoning their unloved pets! She mentions Bertrand Russell, in-the-line to buy, more jet fuel.

 "(sung)Way down in the hoooooooooooooole..."

...
A lot is missing from this act but I bleeped rather than taking out a whole chunk which I also did
C Phillips Aug 2012
Catching the smiles that
sound those three words
from your lips in our net
made of promises and truth that
makes my heart melt away,
blunting the razorblade of thought
that another hearbeat will
one day haunt me from your finger.
Is it acceptable to **** anyone and everyone you want,
Be mysteriously exposed in your photographs,
Act carelessly with people and friends drunk and drugged and dicked out of your mind,
Forget the hurtful and blissful past for a reputation,
Exist in a way the girl you were never thought you could be the girl you are,
Because you’re in your 20s?

You remind me of the characters Greta Gerwig plays in some of her films,
But not Gerwig herself,
Although you do look an awful like her Hispanic version if there was one;
I guess that’s you.

I bet when I was placing the edge of the razorblade against my wrist,
You were getting penetrated and plowed by a **** between the legs.

Your innocence was smothered by your lust and
Our history got erased by your fears and flaws.

I just wanted you,
But then again, everyone already had you,
And it was not my fault;
It was your choice.
Kittridge James Jan 2013
Quiet girl

You are stronger

Than your biting

Urge for pain


Reclusive girl,

Just because

you know where it is

Doesn't mean necessary indulgence


Mindless girl,

With your broken

Heart and smile

You can pull through


Self- destructive girl,

You can handle

This strong urge

For a razorblade kiss
Between your poisonous smiles,
Your heartless jokes and your
Razorblade Smile, I fell for the
Person I thought I saw:
The One
The cuts made, still hurt
They haven't closed up yet
Just flesh wounds but they,
They sting. They burn. It's
Been a day and that thin red
Line, the mark of your possession
Is still on me, marking me for
The world to see. You're my
Obsession, the world's Pariah
But they all bow before you
Wouldn't dare say a word in
Your presence, except to beg
At your feet for your cruel
Double-edged mercy. A day more
You reward them. Throughout
Eternity, you taunt them. The
Price is so heavy, yet they pay up
They can hardly resist. The price
Of Humanity, of Greed is fatal indeed.

The unchanging constant wherever
I may go. The Universe itself is
Undefined, except for you and your
Kin: Change. Time wasn't ever as
Constant as you; its fickle nature
Is as legendary as your promptness
Change was never as evident as you;
Its subtlety as infamous as the
Pungent, dark
Air you leave behind
In the lives of humans and animals alike.
Part of a series about Death. They're all pretty disconnected and they don't have to be read in any particular order.
Ivy Smith Jun 2015
"I'm fine," she says with a halfhearted grin.
"I'm fine," she says again, waving away a helpful hand.
"I'm fine," she says to herself, several minutes later.
"I'm fine," she whispers, wiping her face.
She's not fine.

"I'm fine," she says moments after the cry leaves her lips.
"I'm fine," she says to herself, sinking to the floor.
"I'm fine," she tells herself, shaking in a ball.
"I'm fine," she repeats, picking up the razorblade.
She's not fine.

"I'm fine," she says to her concerned family.
"I'm fine," she insists as those who love her worry.
"I'm fine," she says to anyone who listens.
"I'm fine," she lies as she slices her wrists.
She's not fine.

"I'm fine," she cries, sobbing on the bathroom floor.
"I'm fine," she wails, but only in a whisper.
"I'm fine," she mutters, watching the blood leave her wrist.
"I'm fine," she practices, stepping from the room.
She's not fine.

"I'm fine," she assures the world outside.
Aa Harvey Feb 2020
Razorblade


Shot a rebel through the heart.
Cancer kills but life is art.
You tried to put a stop to all that we are,
But we are too hot to handle; you can’t grab hold of a star.


Fire your guns; I’m invincible.
Speak your words; I’ve heard them all before.
Condemn a man for condemning your war.
You will never stop what we are.


Your system of control and degrade is beginning to fade.
Push my buttons, I’m a microwave,
Blowing through your wall like a hand grenade.
A tongue so sharp, I’m a razorblade;
Cutting your lies apart…your truth cannot be saved.


(C)2020 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Benjamin Apr 2018
I could hold it in a breath,
bury it inside my chest,
watch the cilia react,
a current sent with each contact;
alas, I cannot keep it in
considering the broken skin;
with crimson ink, this razorblade’s
a fountain pen, I scrawl away:

“Hear me now, in sight of God,
first all is still, then comes the flood.”
The little blackbird hushed her song—
she could sense something was wrong—
pitchforked lightning bent the trees
and fireworks consumed the leaves
where my better angels hanged—
this, the Province of the ******.

If you were kept inside my chest,
you’d have slipped out with the rest,
while the vultures had their fill
picking piece by piece until
I’m left bone-bleached in the sun—
all the others turned to run;
but you were steadfast through it all,
from the spire to the fall.

The willow whispers from outside
where my history resides,
ghosts of angels hide beneath
the wilted branches of that tree—
I still catch glimpses of the scythe
from the corner of my eye,
but morning’s come, I cannot sleep here
in the shadow of the Reaper.
Elexer Apr 2018
The Razorblade
That's what I call love
I bet you'd pick it up
And mess around with it
If I put it down
It gets extremely complicated
Anything to forget everything

Got to take me out
At least once a week
Whether I'm in your arms
Or I'm at your feet
I know exactly what you're thinking
You won't say it now,
But in your heart it's loud

Oh no, my feelings are more important than yours
Drop dead, I don't care, I won't worry

Oh the Razorblade
Wish it would snap this rope
World is in your hand
Or it's at your throat
At times it's not that complicated
Anything to forget everything

He would never talk
But he was not shy
She was a street smart girl
But she cannot lie
They were perfect for each other
Say it now, 'cause in your heart it's love

Oh no, my feelings are more important than yours
Drop dead, I don't care, I won't worry

Sweet one,
Your feelings are more important
Of course
OF COURSE
These are words from the Strokes. Not mine at all. Sometimes i wonder how i can still stand to listen to this with the reality of things
Aa Harvey Apr 2018
Razorblade Highway


There’s a razor ripping up the high way.
It’s already a bad day and it’s only Monday.
If I could change all the words to what I meant to say,
I would only change ‘I like you’ to ‘I love you Babe’.


It’s a good time for me to be leaving.
Doing ninety but I’m still not speeding.
If I did I would no longer be dreaming,
About a future where they make me her sin.


I couldn’t care less about my apathy,
But it’s a part of me, like my hair, eyes, hands and teeth
And there is no way for me to get rid,
Because this is the only way I know how to live.


An island in the sun?  Never lived on one.
Took a vacation once, but still never managed to catch the sun.
It keeps on running on gaseous energy;
Burning bright for you and blinding me.


It’s not a good day for me to be having a bad day.
I couldn’t say what I wish I never said.
You have a barrier; I get in my own way.
There’s a conveyor belt running through my head.


Off drops another thought, acting on instinct.
The free will of the naturally gifted.
All I do I have spent a lifetime learning.
A fading star will not keep burning.


Live a life less extraordinary.
Pick up a dictionary, write a new story.
If you are only searching for the glory,
Then you will only ever fail to truly,
Know the truth of a one heart butterfly.
Cease time and make way for a smile.
Let her through to see the inside of you,
Or hide away in the deepest blues.


I couldn’t contemplate not being in love again.
If I did I think I would meet my end.
There’s a reason for me to carry on…
One day I will be left as loves carrion.


I could lie, but I don’t have it in me.
I could shout out loud and scream!
I could hide away and never be open;
But what would that make me when my shell is already broken?


Nothing to hide but the deepest secrets.
They are hidden from me just like I need them to be.
If I exposed myself to the truth of human nature,
I would cry and fall down dead by a razor.

People ****!
At being in love.
They don’t care that I don’t care and you don’t care enough.


I cannot take all your deceitful back-stabbing.
Take a second…look at who it is you are grabbing.
I am not your hot property for any time;
I am God’s gift!
To the art of crying.


I have no strength left to put up with your selfishness.
Take it all back.  
I tried my best to get past your past,
But as you confess to a string of adultery,
I pick it up, wrap it around my neck,
I take a lovers leap
And I am finally free…


(C)2018 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Creepstar Mar 2016
Razorblade

          Serenade

                    I'm not afraid

                                No more masquerade

                                                     The darker shade

                                                                  Through hell I wade

                                                                                             Until I fade
Warren Gossett Dec 2011
Your words, like razorblades,
lacerate and penetrate
this grasping heart.
I've cried out many times in pain,
pleading with you, asking why
you can't simply walk away
and leave with me a portion
of my heart to lose elsewhere.

--
Saul Makabim Aug 2012
Few freaks
have such impeccable taste,
Singing Pagliacci, smoking a Cuban cigar,
And sipping L'Essence de Courvoisier,
As he lowers you into the shark tank,
To feed his hungry pet.
Forget appearances
He cloaks himself in affectations,
And feigned cordiality
But he will take you down at the knees,
And kick your face until he can hide his shoe in your skull
Or put a bullet through your brain,
Before you can ask why he has an umbrella
When the weatherman said
No rain
Cobblepot
A name as Gotham
As Chapman and Wayne
Always dressed to the nines
He drinks the finest wines
But he can humiliate four thugs
Who try to mug him
In an alley
Cut the fools down in a fury
Steel shod umbrella,
Razorblade shoes,
And a gun up his sleeve
Appearances deceive
The definition of The Penguin
Matt dos Santos Jul 2013
I lose days like the second sock in the wash
Obligations non existent
A winter wonderland after every paycheck
No family
No Friends
No feeling
No ties
Except around my arm
White lines cut with white lies
A knock at the door
Stay awhile and dance(save) with me?
A steady stream of pain rolled down her cheeks
As I entered her dimly lit room,
On a night I will never forget.

The pain leaped from her face
And harshly landed on the floor,
Creating a salty lake beneath her.

I went to sit down,
And she quickly pulled away her weapon of choice
In a hypocritical effort to not hurt me.

The liquid meant to stay within
Bitterly rested on the edge,
And looked upon us in defeat.

She then pulled out her toolbox
In the shape of a shoebox
And carefully placed the tool next to her other instruments of self-destruction.

Tonight was a razorblade,
Yesterday was a box-cutter,
And I pray tomorrow will be nothing.

I started to speak but bit my tongue,
Because the right words are like lost love,
Barely out of reach, but rarely found.

She claimed it made the pain disappear.
But I knew better, because her face still remained hidden in her hands
And physical wounds don’t amount to mental ones.

She finally looked up and noticed my empathetic face,
As I gazed into her eyes
In wonder of what was going on behind them.

I gently placed her head on my shoulder,
Wiped her tears,
And promised her everything would be alright.


I knew she heard my words but didn’t understand them,
Because she refused to believe life was long,
And that happiness would eventually find her.


We sat silently as thoughts raced through our heads.
We had no reason to talk,
For we knew what the other was thinking.

I looked upon her arm at the once-****** slit,
That would forever remain engraved,
Right next to all the others.

I reminded her that when all appears to be lost it can only get better,
Because a tree that loses its leaves in the fall always grows more in the spring,
And winter is almost over.

A slim smile formed on her face
And realization soon followed.
She finally understood.

Despite each scar and each feeling of uselessness,
There would always be at least one person,
Who finds her beautiful.
wakeupnirvana Aug 2013
The delicious
and such malicious
way of how the
look of the blade
to thy wrist;

It's blue pulse,
jumping up and down.
Suddenly appearing,
And calling attention.
to the wonderful shiny
silver blade.
Just like a woman,
flirts to a man.

And closer comes
the blade towards thy
wrist, Slowly and gently
coming to position.
One Slash there,
and another there.

Until the pulse,
slowly releases
the strawberry jam
into her.


*And dies away.
dj Oct 2012
Justice is a *****
With claws
Miles and miles and miles
Guillotine jaws
And when she throws the book at you
It's 1000 pounds
With a curse in every clause.

And when those swords
Turn in on you
It's miles and miles of claws
To wring you out
In a razorblade chokehold you won't ever

forget.
RIP
C Phillips Oct 2012
Catching the smiles that
sound those three words
from your lips
in our net made
of promises and truth
that makes my heart
melt away,
blunting the razor blade
of thought that
another heartbeat
will soon enough haunt you
from my finger.
Joseph Valle Aug 2012
A man poses at a dimly lit table,
a light hangs directly overhead
with a cobweb ribbon-wrapped around
the steel wire escaping the ceiling.
An inverted roulette table,
a man betting against the house:
It is always this way.
Light flickers, flipped on,
and off, and on,
without a switch
with which to assert control.
He is alone in the squeaking chair,
sipping tea and dipping his crumb-covered
hands into the napkin-covered basket
of water crackers and salted peanuts.

Sitting, he poses for practice, but for now,
he practices for no one.
The house is empty.
In the back of his mind, there is no worry
of what one will find upon entering
the kitchen: A scarecrow at a table,
full of straw and teeth dulled down
from night grinding,
sitting in, what could be mistaken
as, a pensive position.

The scavenger hand makes him look wanting.
It's partner is propped on chin,
accompanied by his half-sculpted smile
and the dark-light contrast of his hair and eyes
with yellow shining off of his two front teeth.
The color is not the fault of stumbling home
too late to care for the mouth, but of the old
incandescent staring him down
and the obsessively clean, marble surface
at which he puckers his face.

A tapping in the hall stirs his bones
and his body darts up.
A crow, it seems, with small grey beak
has wandered in from the overgrown fields,
the fields that haven't been tended to
since this boy began taking himself too seriously.
The both of them with stilts for legs
and no breeze of running feet
from scream to sway the pair of pairs.
Their eyes connect and neither moves.
Who should place the first bet,
black or red,
and who will set the ball in motion?

The light goes off.
Denoument is a bad time
for a bulb to die.
As calm as a hand
with razorblade against skin,
the scarecrow sits down once again
and poses.
The bird observes his motion,
calls, and waits,
but the man moves no more,
overjoyed with an invisible audience,
a full stomach.
Zyanneh Frazier Oct 2015
Suicidal Thoughts

She happens to have those thoughts all because
She happens to be suffering on the inside
Nobody seems to understand this young lady
All because they happen to not care about her feelings
They happen to call her out her name just to put a smile on their faces
While she runs away with tears going down her face
And a broken heart that can’t seem to get fixed
So all she happens to have are these
Suicidal Thoughts
She happens to have those thoughts all because
She always looking at herself in the mirror
All because she doesn’t thinks she as beautiful as them
The girls who happens to call her ugly
When they are just trying to make themselves feel better
All because they don’t have the looks and style as this young lady
So they are willing to bring her down just to make themselves feel so much better
So all she happens to have are these
Suicidal Thoughts
She happens to have those thoughts all because
Boys never approach her as a man
They happen to make her feel uncomfortable
And unwanted all because she isn’t the girl they thought she would be
They use her as a toy
They happen to play with her mind and emotions
They use her as a game
They happen to hit it and quit it
They use her as a dog
They happen to make her do as they say
So all she happens to have are these
Suicidal Thoughts
She happens to have those thoughts all because
She is wondering who her real friends are
Which happens to be this razorblade and this bottle filled with pills
Please help her before it’s too LATE!

By Zyanneh Frazier
Stephanie Hayden Mar 2010
I don’t know you yet,
But I’m scared I won’t ever get the chance
And there is still so much I want to tell you.
So I hope tonight you’re listening to
The sun whispering secrets and promises to the earth
While the stars play sonatas and symphonies
with a crescendo that Shakes beliefs
and crystallizes my voice in the wind
I hope it’s carried to you, wherever you are.
I hope you feel what I’m feeling right now
And know you’re not alone
And wherever you are
Whoever you are
I love you
So put down your blade
For you should only bleed with the moon
Life’s the gift in your veins and
Your wrist was meant to be kissed by lips
Untie your noose,
Use the rope to tie the backyard swing
Someone someday
Will pump their legs so they can
Fly and kiss the universe
But that’s not the only thing I want to tell you

Like the mother that gives up her unborn
Tears in her eyes for the
Countless nights she won’t be able to
Tuck her daughter into bed
And tell secrets of the strength she possesses
That she’s so much more than beautiful
her legs are strong enough to carve her own path
And someday she’ll find success buried
Inside her own bones
Read her son fairytales
Of how to love gently
Break the stereotypes
Because It’s okay if he cries
There’s strength in tears
She has so many lessons and stories to
Share but
She’s only 16 and she’s still a child herself
this is the second time
Her mistakes will burn scars in the empty space
Between her arms as she cradles regrets and
Kisses the soft skin of an imaginary cheek
right below the should-be reflection
Of herself
There’s still so much she wants to tell them


And there’s a girl wandering the street alone
who’s given up believing in anything
Except empty promises and lies
The same night her god died in
The arms of a stranger who
had too much to drink
Bruises on her thighs
And stale breath burned into her neck
Knowing no amounts of soap could wash
The filth away, not even the sun is bright enough to guide her
When her eyes are stained with black cigarette ash
Not knowing there’s someone out there that
Has the stars to bring her safely home
that there are empty hands aching
To hold her
show her there is so much more
Than wrists and razors
That Heaven can be found
In hot chocolate and mini-marshmallows
a safe arm around her shoulders as they toast
One another by the fireplace
But she’s already given up
With the barrel to her chest,
She takes a deep breath
and pulls the trigger
While miles away in foster care
In a run-down room with
three beds and tear stained sheets
is the lonely other half with stars in his pupils
A smile for the hope of making a home
Despite the promises of homes that’s been constantly broken
He keeps his strength in ink
so he keeps on writing
And even without dinner for a week
He’s full with dreams of
A home he would’ve shared with her but
he’ll never know that except for the pain in his chest
From never hearing the voice that
Could sing back his heartbeats, a muse
with hands that mirror his lifelines
But tonight with no realization of the could-be family
He’ll press his pen to paper;
Writing poetry for the girl he’ll never meet,
folding his words into a paper airplane
That he can release to the atmosphere
And pray it finds her, wherever she is.
There’s still so much he wants to tell her


And
I want to whisper secrets in your ear
Of every nightmare I’ve ever had
And how I believe you can turn the falling sand
Into dreams
Give bodies to the ghosts
Of those who haven’t died yet
I want to tell you stories of
My grandmother under the Tuscan sun,
Losing everything but still believing in her dreams
And how with shaky hands from world war II bombs
She signs her name on the Ellis Island wall
An Italian accent tinging her tongue
As she learns how to dream in English
Of how she joins the American war so she can
Shakily hold a diploma and finally
Teeter on the edge of the precipice
Singing songs of triumph and kissing
The things she dreamt of as a child
And with those same shaky hands
She’ll hold my mother and kiss her eyelids
Not once resenting those explosions
Because fate has a funny way of
Bringing you to where you were meant to be
And she was meant to love the American man
Who stares down at his new born child with
A new kind of gentleness in his smile
And these are the things I admire the most

But I also want to tell you how I’m terrified
Of how I’ll inherit my grandfathers disease
(the same man with a gentle smile)
Of mania in iridescent white
And depression so deep you drown in blue
With his OCD mannerisms and bi-polar Medication
he shakes too.
And sometimes I’m convinced
That this shame will be repaid
With my own set of pill boxes
Mapping out every white and brown tablet
That I’ll take day after day
To control the chaos
To control the hysteria
To bottle myself up in chains
So I can say no to the shining razorblade that
Beckons to release the pressure of
Red (blood)
White (highs)
And blue. Deep deep blue.
He has chocolate brown eyes just like mine
So maybe that’s not the only thing
I’ve inherited

I want you to be someone I hold
Under sheets kissing your forehead as you fall asleep
Both feeling holy as Jesus as we finally let go and cry
Knowing that our tears will reach their hands into the sky
To pick out the brightest stars
and light up one another’s face in the dark.
Invincible but not invisible in your embrace.
I want to tell you of all my dreams and how I used to
Pretend I had superpowers
Pretend I could fly with a red cape
i want to tell you
Of how I still sleep with the moon as my night light
Because I’ve always been scared of what lurks in the dark
And
When I look in the mirror
I don’t really know who looks back
but I still think life is beautiful
When you’re looking for pictures in clouds.
Most importantly I want to tell you
I love you.
I don’t know you yet,
but I love you
And I hope when I pass you on the street
Not yet knowing your name
I will dream of you.
And someday when I come across you again
In some coffee shop on the corner of
Reality and make believe
I’ll have the courage to ask you to
Stay and talk a while
The steam from your Chai washing away
The stress from your face
As we both realize this is it
So let‘s start with our names and explain
there is so much we need to tell each other.
Henry Daniels Jun 2012
Hay bud
      roofies
razorblade coochies
Bubble gum
            glue sniff
spare change electric
automatic blue cheese.
Marked for death
                dont forget
to lay off the wet ****
unless you like the handcuff
kickin and screamin.
I want to smoke your ****
and smoke a jay
                Hay bud
              tell me
You got somethin to say?
Industrial Death Dec 2017
The blood moon beckons a bitter hue
Rising above the frothy winter dew.
In the night- luminated a single room.
My only solace in the suppressive city gloom.

(Staring in the nocturnal vacuity:
A grey hazy mirror passing in my soul.)

Blades of silver steel
Puncture my mind, with
Seething desire I long to wield.

Withholding the bitter sorrow
I take the blade in hand,
To cleanse me from the ‘morrow.

Slitting of flesh ensue,
The ****** begins.
Skinning to the bone to make me anew.

From head to toe,
Cut to shreds.
No one will feel the pleasure I know.

Squirting from my anatomy.
The warm gush of fluid.
The spermatozoa-blood spewing over me.

For the final incision-
Off with my ****** “member.”
Pressure relieved.

****** achieved.

                                                  THE END…
Jessie Taylor H Feb 2016
Sometimes I fall,
Sometimes I break;
Hidden up my sleeves,
Are my mistakes.

When I numb the pain,
With scars that take too long to fade;
I remember your lips,
They felt so great.

But baby,
So does his blade.
2/18/2016
Heather Butler Jul 2011
The cactus ate the moon;
a cosmic starflower;
a cyanide razorblade.

You ate your way through the mouse droppings
in the cereal bowl
and look at me through lens-less everythings.

The sun took the moon
to his midnight hideaway
and she was absent that night.

Beneath the artificial breeze
blowing noisily, raucous;
birds in a tree eating acorns like squirrels do.

I never gave you hope;
I never gave you nothing;
I never gave you what you deserved.

Senseless, mindless, wandering wanderlust
wonderlust
you're keeping yourself company tonight.

Ha! playing with yourself again, I see.
Picking your nose and rubbing your toes
in the sandy sandy dandy boy beaches.

Friendly, never ceasing.

Repeating repeating repeating lines
repeating repeating repeating signs
repeating repeating relocating lies

Nice to just let go
no reality
no gravity.

But I'm not defying, no
nor scrying, oh
but lying, go.

She gave me her hand
and expected me to restitch the fibres
as if I were ever so good a tailor.

Surgeon.

Nevermind.
Nice to just forget that anything is supposed to make sense.
Heather Butler; 2011
Lindsey Miller Jun 2012
i am being aimlessly guided by a decrepit side street.
the smell of who-knows-what hangs in the still like an occupied noose
as i strain to ignore the unpleasant moisture on my brow,
the imperceptible perspiration of emotional exertion.

my heels can decipher the coded cracks in the concrete
and converse with muffled clackings that echo from alleyway walls.
they say, "our coordinates are flawless; this is the path to freedom."
i think, to reach it alone would be more bitter than any confinement.

‘cause i left some love in an empty room miles from here—
it’s collecting cobwebs instead of affections
while the idol of unrequited passion burns
and its ashes are faxed to four far corners of a hardhearted world.

i reach a dead end and feel the breath catch in my throat.
there is nothing here but the empty cocoons of the homeless
who have hopefully lifted themselves on dusty wings to a better place
leaving me searching for signs of life in the litter they've left behind.

there is a poster haphazardly taped to the bricks;
no lettering, no information, just the face of a man.
he stares blankly at me from his paper veranda
as if i were a television set, some mundane form of entertainment.

then, unexpectedly, a hole rips through the flyer
to compensate for the boot-clad leg freeing itself from dried pulp
and stepping heavily onto the pavement below.
i stumble back in mixed horror and disbelief as appendages creep lividly from the wall

until the man with the advertised face stands before me.
he pulls a pack of parliaments from his trenchcoat pocket
and wordlessly offers me one as his lighter births infant flame.
soon, the nicotine fog hangs like an opaque grey curtain between us.

then the silence is shattered, with shards of stillness breaking against the asphalt.
"i hope you weren't attempting to be stealthy. i could hear you for miles."
the voice emitted is raspy, the sound of a dull razorblade on the neck of a convict.
i shiver fiercely in response with a zero-kelvin cold.

a frankenstein hand fights through the smoke to grasp my ashen face.
his finger to my lips is a canker sore forming.
"a pretty lil' thing like you shouldn't be caught dead in this mess."
his forked tongue forms the words of nothing i don't already know.

i push him away. "just cut to the chase. we don't need to drag this out.
you know what i came here for, so let's get it over with."
my heart spasms in protest, but i suppress it with clenched fists.
as it dejectedly thuds in my chest, i can taste the bile rising in my throat.

he raises an eyebrow, then sniggers, showing off a yellow shark-toothed grin.
"the princess has a temper! well, you've come a long way for this, sweet cheeks."
he reaches into his coat, pulls out his leather gauntlets blackened with singe.
"say exactly what you need, doll, and your old pal lucifer will handle the rest."

my lungs deflate, punctured by pins and needles of stale air
and the blood dries in my veins like cruel sun blistering the desert.
half of me begs for lockjaw. the other half manipulates the corners of my mouth.
"erase him from my mind. i can't spend my life obsessing."

a glint of guilty pleasure in the devil's red eye seals the deal.
soul extraction's just like getting a tooth pulled, i tell myself regretfully.
it's just another part you don't need, a bland and disposable item.
but it doesn't quell the fear; i'm shaking hard enough to register on a richter scale.

the man in black embraces me, grasping my ribcage in his massive gloved hands.
a flash of doubt sears through me, yet i stand frozen, crucified.
i feel satan's minions pulling at memories like loose strings
and there is chanting in my ears; evolnilr igafognir effuseht eta ivellai sihth tiw.



i come to with dry heaves and a migraine sent from hell itself
to find that i am home in bed with the sheets around my ankles.
i rise and move to the mirror, see the dark circles traced around my eyes,
and dissolve into sobs without knowing why.
Lesa Renee Feb 2016
"I taste death in every kiss we share
Every sundown seems to be the last we have
Your breath on my skin has the scent of our end
I'm drunk on your tears baby can't you see it's hurting

Every time we touch we get closer to heaven
And at every sunrise our sins are forgiven
You on my skin this must be the end
The only way you can love me is to hurt me again
And again
And again
And again..."
- Ville Hermanni Valo, H.I.M.
"It's You, It's You,
It's all for you,
Everything I do..."
Johnnie Rae Aug 2012
To the girls who think they're nothing;
no matter what they say, you're worth something,
there are many people out there, who will miss you when you're gone,
this earth is where you belong,
do not convince yourself otherwise,
no matter how bad it seems, its always possible to pull through,
so do not sulk, with a razorblade to your ever so pale wrist,
do not make things worse, by hurting yourself,
this isnt what you really need,

To the girls who put these kind of people down;
Grow the **** up,
respect the people around you, if you have any class,
to be honest, I hope you fall on you're fat ***,
on the way up to success,
no need to be so rude though,
there is one thing I do know,
no matter what you tell them, they'll always be worth more than every single ******* one of you put together,
it doesnt matter, you chose the wrong path, always being the bad girl,
step into the victims shoes,
feel the hurt they felt,
when you put them down,

Here's to the girls who feel like nothing;
Buck up,
swallow you're pride,
accept the things you cannot change, and change the things you can,
theres no shame in putting on a fake smile, and not letting others suffer,
stay away from drugs, they'll only give you more time to think,
when a boy wants to have *** in an alley, make sure you don't lay in glass,
and make sure the ******* doesnt leave you, with a kid in your arms,
no matter what you may believe, you're worth something,
no matter what any one says, I'm always gonna love you,
its not what they say thats important, its important we all know its a lie,
so be strong, and tell everyone you've never felt better,
but if someone asks you whats wrong, don't be afraid to pour your fragile heart out,
to the ones who love you, because they're there to listen, and they want you to feel better,

So here's to the girls,*
who suffer, but with a brave face,

Here's to the girls,
Like **me.
Jade Massey Dec 2014
Rose as red
As the crimson
Blood within.
Petals fall
One by one.
Stem as bright
As a healthy
Green hill.
Thorn as sharp
As a razorblade.
Brown and yellow
Slowly encases
The one true
Rose.
Macy Opsima Oct 2016
when i was little,
i cried because i wanted It.

It being the crisp sound of fulfillment
that keeps the black hole in the middle of my body quite.
i wanted, i needed It.
sometimes the black hole
would turn red as lava
and it would feel like a volcano
wanting to erupt
but the thing is,
it doesn't have anything to force out.
and i do not like the feeling.

i woke up today
and my mind was a shade of blue.
i don't quite remember
drinking 10 bottles of anesthesia
to feel this pale.
every crack on the pavement
looks like a long razorblade
that would cut my foot if i step on it.
here comes the habit of right first then left,
counting the leaves of my neighbor's bush,
and the amount of C's i swallow
because everything should be even.
2,4,6,8
only that to relieve the ache
because you are what you eat
and who wants to be odd?

there in my bed,
i wonder if the rain is infused with anesthetics
and the black hole erupting
is the only pain i am feeling.
and i like the feeling.

now im older,
i cried because i do not want It.
Ashley Moor Nov 2017
It’s 1:02 p.m.
on a Wednesday
I am waiting to take a test
1:03 p.m.
and I am willing
to test my willingness
to stay here
in a town that moves
on the back
of a razorblade.
They never say
what we are waiting for
here
in the quiet
resistance
like the eye of the storm
on the softest sheets.
I have become an antique,
a collectible,
a hollow instrument
used for my city’s defense.
I have begun
to move backwards,
erasing time
in a land where
clocks don’t tick
and lights don’t blink.
Love
here
always moves like the weather –
moving
churning
spilling
breathing
forcing
uncompromising
is the love of Mother Nature.
If I had met you
before the government won
or after my mind
became a gun
I would love you
I would love you
I would love you
better.
Missing you.

— The End —