why we cut

ipoems about cutting

these are some poems that either i made or some other wattpaders made so if i used your poem i give you your credit

one cut two cut three cut four look at my blood on the floor sorry if you don't appreciate me this is how my life will be the metal blade by my side especially in the dark times one cut two cut three cut four i went to deep even if i weep it will be just another scar one cut two cut three cut four sorry I'm not here anymore you weren't there so why care one cut two cut three cut four ill be gone forever and more

just one cut just one more letting my heart poor out onto the floor my blood crimson a color unchanging one cut just one more its not so bad relax and let it float all the pain and all the dread one cut let it unfold to deep to bad no matter the pain brings you back the color one cut just one more can make you or break you your family hates you your friends all left you never needed anything more than the razor a needle a can a piece of glass one cut just one more

go to sleep and close your eyes and dream of broken butterflies that tore their wings against a thorn you know the pain they have borne

silver metal shines so bright scarlet blood that feels so right dream of that blood trickling down and wake up before you drown

i know a boy who liked to draw he drew pictures that nobody saw he was the most artistic late at night in the bathroom out of sight he kept a secretnobody knew he didn't tell a soul and his gallery grew his drawings were different no paper or pen but needed a bandage now and again we stood by the river under the stars he rolled up his sleeves and showed me his scars he felt embarrassed and looked down at his shoe then i rolled up my sleeve and whispered "i draw too"

this girl paints a pretty picture but this story has a twist her paint brush is her razor and get canvas is her wrist she paints a pretty picture in a color that's blood red while using her sharp paint brush she ends up finally dead her pretty picture fading quite slowly on her wrist the blood is not racing through her she painted a pretty picture but this picture had a twist you see her mind was her razor and her heart was just her wrist