Some cut their wrists,
Others cut their thighs,
Some play with scissors,
Others play with knives,
They say they will stop,
They say that their fine,
They almost always lie.
When their wrists are covered by red,
And their thighs are black and blue,
The depression that their meeting wants them to die too.
When they cut too deep,
The blood that pours out,
Their hearts will stop beating,
The teenagers die out.
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Social Outcasts
PoetryWe are all judged and viewed in different ways. Stereotypical labels and rumours are all we care about. We all blame the society but seem to forget that we are the society. We are the one's who have been questioned by society, the one's who are soci...
