“My Cutting”
These words are blood.
They come form my cutting.
Except,
I don’t cut myself,
My writing is my
Razor meeting my
Skin.
Instead of self-damage,
I destroy a page..
Or pages. The words
Are the blood drops
Forming lines. All my
Pain, lands on the paper
Ad well as my tears.
The emotional response
From each stroke;
My skin is paper;
My blood is words;
My razor is a pen;
Everything was not
Built to hold pain
Within.
My pain, my worry.
I dare not share
Anywhere other than
My poetry.
For I know that
Razor and that
Blood is healthily
Shed, instead
Of my head lying
Stuffed inside a
Coffin. 20 feet under
Ground, where for sure
My voice will not be
Heard.
YOU ARE READING
My Cutting
PoetryRaw emotion from eyes that have to fake alot of happiness while watching the world burn up in flames as the ruthlessness of the people go unnoticed by one another. -Rebecca Atkinson
