A blade remains treaded,
between my unskilled fingers.
Scars line my dreaded;
red ink lines the swell;
My hand tries to still;
but nothing stays well,
lines glean, uneven,
handwriting clear,
Free.
---
If you're having thoughts like these, thoughts like mine, reach out to someone. You can get help. They will believe you. They will listen. Don't be afraid, we're here with and for you."
YOU ARE READING
Poetry
Poetrytrying my hand at poetry. sometimes its about love, too much, crushing so hard you're breaking, but sometimes its about the itch in your brain where no verbal statement can reach. I fell in love with literature harder and softer than spoken words. B...
