My shaking fingers reach,
They reach for the cold walls
I scratch at the stiff paint,
Only to be met with cement.
Nails cut harshly,
Bowl of water pushed from behind the door,
Soak my aching hands, ones that wish to see light.
Skin so pale,
Skin so cold.
Wish to feel the sun, burning me again.
I hate her dark hair,
She closes the door,
I've stopped begging her,
Stopped trying.
Given up, it seems.
Grown to weary,
To the scratch at the walls,
So I scratch my skin instead.
Become so thin,
Don't know what I want anymore.
Become so small,
I'll never keep up with them.
Want a friend,
One to scare away,
The voices that claim our friendship.
The cuts they've grown smaller,
Can't even scratch anymore,
The blood has dried and washed away,
Washed along with the water,
Down the drain.
YOU ARE READING
Zenith - A Book Of Poetry
PoetryA book of devoid poems. There isn't much to explain, or describe. I wrote My Dark Friend- A Book of Poems which I had to end do to my issue of writing too much, so this is kind of part 2.
