Skeletons of discarded sharpeners
lay wasted on my desk.
Their blades bloodied,
used to make my pain less.
They are my writing tools,
my crimson release.
They are my weapons,
against the monsters and the beasts.
Their screws lay around,
like scattered white bones.
My drawer; a graveyard,
of steel and chrome.
Scar my wrists
with pretty little lines.
I'm sure no one will know,
I'm sure they think I'm fine.
They miss the sharpener's corpses
and the little screws.
They miss the long sleeves
and the bloodied tissues.
Their minds filled with acts
Their eyes; with ignorance,
they ignore the damage
of the steel blade's dance.
YOU ARE READING
Sad poems by a sad girl
PoetryThese are all poems and small short stories written by me. The quality gets better towards the end:) ( all images are not mine and I got them off google) ........................................................................ The deep sadness that...
