***
And the blood stains there,
on the kitchenware.
An innocent supplement,
to everyday fare.
I used it differently,
a way,
on my skin,
bare.
Life is not fair,
some barely pare,
to deal with the pain,
that drives others insane.
My hope,
my faith,
my pride,
I feign.
The only crucial claim,
with no joy to spare;
I hurt someone,
mentally,
emotionally,
physically,
spiritually,
with only me to blame.
And that person,
that person whom blames me,
for absolutely all the wrong in their life,
all the stress,
the anxiety,
the depression-
that person is me.
The war in my head,
my wrists that have bled,
the constant you see,
what I am 'set out' to be.
Is only a front,
because I know a cunt,
that tells me my flaws,
that I can never drop jaws,
I'll be one of the outlaws.
An outcast,
an abstract,
in life,
with no impact,
but my stains.
My mind,
jumbled,
torn,
wrecked,
hit by hurricanes.
Of tears.
My thought, the only thing that remains.
After torment for years.
And I live up to such.
My heart has hawse,
scars,
wounds,
dark holes,
that can never be revived with any amount of gauze.
I am not known for much.
But the stains on my skin,
my knives,
and the life I live in,
show the true me,
within.
The one, that can never,
win.
I have guilt,
I have sin,
and in the end,
it will only begin.
Again.
My worst enemy,
my look alike twin,
is really me,
but with a grin.
It tells me I'm worthless,
under my kin,
shows me the pain,
that I will not let in.
Swipes me all vain,
tells me to lower my chin.
My worst enemy,
the stain,
in my skin,
that will forever remain,
is me.
My doppelgänger,
of pain.
***
Ugg, if you are even still reading this-the next chapter may be brutal.
***
11/15/16
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
