***
So many people,
they discriminate,
they loathe,
they hate.
The foul ones,
the needed ones,
they never let you through their gate.
They are hurting,
they are silent,
the ones that stay up too late.
Their eyes filled with tears,
their hands holding fears,
their wrists painted with shards of mirrors.
The ones that hate,
are the ones I hate,
they do this to others,
and give no thought.
They show them their flaws,
and blades are bought.
Depression is brought.
All because of people,
of evil,
of hate.
Don't discriminate.
***
I don't know, this one is not really a poem-more of a rant of the things that bug me.
I wrote this quickly, so please excuse any invalid points or mistakes. Or, if so, help me out and show me them.
***
7/10/17
YOU ARE READING
The Scars On Our Skin
PoetryCrap poems by a crappier person. They paint a pretty picture, but the story has a twist; the paintbrush is a razor, and the canvas is their wrist. Highest Rank; #48 in Poetry Graphics by; @deeplyenchanted
