Through The Eyes Of A Poet

•The Bleeding•

They call us outcasts, rebels, and loners, pot heads and stoners, pain-induced donors.
They call us emos and fags as they give us labels and tags. Unaware of the chaos that nags. They push us aside with riddling lies death to our harrowing cries.

They call us the commonality of razors and knives finding little worth in our lives. That we bleed to see what others fail to see inside. To bleed our crimson lullabies.
So we dance along to their belittling songs, the ones that scream we'll never belong!

We march on, wearing artificial smiles, avoiding their attempts of guile.
We are the minority, sustaining our feelings of ulteriority.
We belong to the calamitous events, embracing the truth that our pain represents.

They talk of truth and pride, that it's fine to push our words aside.
They believe that ignorance is key, that with avoidance we'd leave them be.
They refuse to walk a mile in our shoes for fear of being scared and bruised.

We are the bleeding while they are feeding on lies, so who are we to abuse the majority.
They see sweet oblivion, a paradise under a tomb of gneiss.
They won't understand what we do, about the skin we cut through.

We are the lost, with red marks, bleeding, embossed.
We are the refugees of society, those with plain notoriety.
Our innocents lost to time, the product of a victimless crime.

We are a hopeless paradox, feelings locked away in a blackened box.
We are the bleeding, pleading for our lives, grieving for the things they derive.
They are the monsters in this world, they are the haunters, whose minds are gnarled.

So let us be the renegades, the ones who sing our painful serenades.
As we parade our sorrows that pierce our hearts with arrows.
We know what it's like to hurt, to be strong, and to reassert, as we and death flirt.

Call us what you will, we all know words can kill but you do it still.
We don't care and our thoughts we no longer share as our hearts tear.
So here we go, with nothing left to show because they never cared to know.

We take the blade one last time, do a little rhyme.
It's time to say goodbye since all they could do was stand by.
Maybe someday they'll understand why we were bleeding on the inside