Each morning is a chore.
Waking up
And breathing some more.
This constant battle
I'm trying to hide.
Stains my skin
And rips my pride.
This stainless steel
Comes alive,
Dancing lines across my skin,
Piruoetting,
And on the beat
Hitting the vein.
Going numb and fainting once more.
He won't be waking up
Anymore.
This tormented night
Will cease
And be ignored...
YOU ARE READING
Loud Pøetry Spilled From The Quiet Soul
PoetryAll of these are mine. Not the Internet. Trigger warning. (Self mutilation, depression, anorexia, etc....) And my apologies if they aren't even slow to Bukowski or Anything....I just wanted to try
