I walk in the room, and shut the door.
I sit in the corner as I slide to the floor.
I think of the life that has become mine.
I pray to God to give me a sign.
It’s like he ignores me and doesn’t care.
I stare at the window as I pull my hair.
The moon shines on my arms that are riddled with scars.
From years of hatred, from years of being torn.
No one cares for someone like me.
They avert their eyes like they can’t see.
They walk away as I reach out for help.
Not caring for anyone but themselves.
I take out my blade that is always there.
It doesn’t hate me, it doesn’t stare.
It calms me down when sadness over comes.
Trailing blood all over my arms.
I slowly press the cold to my flesh.
Waiting for my arm to become a mess.
I slide it across as my blood starts to fall.
Taking with it all my sad drawls.
I feel relieved and finally at peace.
Letting go of the demons inside me.
I stare at my arm as I smile to myself.
"What brought me to this?"
"Why isn’t anyone here to help?"
I don’t shed tears, I can’t anymore.
They all went away when I walked through that door.
I feel no pain when that blade meets my arm.
It’s only for release, not to cause that much harm.
YOU ARE READING
Words To No One
PoesíaThese are just poems that I have written for years now, but never was able to publish until now. I was in fear of what expressions they would bring to others, but I soon realized it didn't matter because they were words to no one.
