is it still a joke now?

writer

i used to reach out to you Yaknow.

once upon a time i didnt have this wall.this wall built up so high from thoughts that i can not escape.no matter how hard i try.

and my wrist were clean

they were clean and they were beautiful and i did not own a single blade let a alone a draw full of them.stained with blood and memories i try so hard to forget.but the more i forget the more i remember.one day,long ago,my head was silent.no thoughts.no voices.only those of when i would read.there was once a time where i would read the poems of those drowning in their own mind and i would think 'how can someone be so sad?'

i did not understand

but now i do

because the truth is

my arms are now locked by my side and my wall is so high i can barely see.

my wrists are ugly and covered with scars and my draw is full of blades.and my mind is so loud it blurs into one.

Im not the reader anymore

I Am the writer.