The blade,
It sits across form me,
Taunting me begging to be used,
I stare at it,
Then I look at my wrist,
Last time I went to deep,
This time I might just let it go all the way,
The blade is begging to be used,
But I can't let it win,
Cuz in the end,
My wrist is burning red,
The blade,
Just pick it up an dig it in,
An I'll look just like new,
Maybe, no, yes, I can't,
The blade can call me,
This time,
I won't give into,
The blade.
YOU ARE READING
My Dark Poems
PoetryTitle says it all. - They are not all dark, either. - And there is a few scary stories I found. Note: None of this is like, personal, or true, I convert my anger and depression into these poems. Some have meaning, others don't. Also there is a slig...
