My Book of Poetry ChH

The Writings of Pain

People liked to write words on my skin
Some used chalk or dry erase
That could be wiped away
As easily as if they were on a board
Others pefered brushes or markers
That were a pain to get rid of
But in the caused no pain
But some prefered knifes
Carving words into my skin
And laughing as the blood dripped down my arm
And those could not so easily be ignored
For the pain of the cut
And the blood running like a river
Would not let me forget
But even when wound healed
And my sence of feeling
Wasn't there to remind me
My sense of sight was there
To let me see the scar that was left
But as I grew
I got used to the scars
And it seemed that people
Had traded their knives for brushes
And thier brushes for chalk
But one person kept his knife
And carvings that used to take others days
Took him minutes
And even before the wound would heal
He would strike again
And complain that the skin was thinner
Saying the pain should've made it thicker
But the worst or maybe best part
Is that he wasn't trying to hurt me
He just wanted to help me
And he thought he was
But the thing that made his carvings powerful
Wasn't how hard he pushed
But the words he wrote
For others wrote insults
He wrote accusations
"You don't even try"
"You don't even care"
"You have no desire"
Maybe he's right
And that's the most painful part of all
The confusing part is
How do I have any blood or skin left
Maybe I don't
Maybe I died long ago