My Soul riots in this hollow body
Looking for a means of which to escape
Knifes are there, so are needles
But It is to scared to break the skin
For that means of escape is different
Its painful, slow, draging on, its Red
Not the clear white whisp that flies
But the thick oozing pool of regret
A painless escape is the least likely
A means of is painful in choice
For the soul dies with the seeping pain
And thus can never be free
So it coats the skin in a painful Armor
Ones that only help the Soul to die
This Armor layers and creaks, dies with you
No the Armor kills the Soul too
The Armor burdens, burns, buries
It is soley the Armor, no sword
It is soley the Armor, no shield
No each piece cost part of the Soul
Each ounce of the sword and sheild
Arrows, Arrows of poison, no clots
It is not poision, its the Red
Its called pride, the clots are
They clot the tongue, no it knots
The clots are knots of pride, chains
They can't ask for help, to escape
The help is just as painful as Red
The help judges, it creates more
More pain, more Red, more knots
Some of those knots are loose though
Some free to ask for help, again
Then those knots tighten up again
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This is a poem I wrote because I was feeling like the worst again, I didn't finish it because I lost the mood... I started writing on my skin... My history teacher saw it and told me don't write on my skin, the ink will seep into my skin. That I can die from it. All that was going through my head was "Stop telling me don't. That's all I ever hear. Don't, don't, don't. Stop telling me don't" Why did he have to say it in front of the entire class? Still I wouldn't have wanted him to pull me to the side...
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Midnight Writings
PoetryThis is a collection of poems that I've written over a period of time. They range from a few personal pieces to pieces about simple things or day to day reality. Most of my pieces are just words that cross my mind that fall into a poem without me e...
