Poetic Relapse.

Hands.

Hands these days, do more hurt than to brew happiness, with strange shaped bullets and sharp knives

that pierce skin with intent to hurt, and all of these hands do so, to these hands' arms, legs, stomach, and skin.

Why do these hands cause

more harm than happiness?

Why can't these hands hold

others, instead of guns?

Why can't these hands hold

hips instead of knives and blades?

Why cant these hands carve

love into paper than carve

marks into supple skin that does more to

love than hands, and why, at last,

do these minds that control these hands

hurt more than these hands themselves do?

Why must thought of guns, knives, blades, and marks in supple skin cause actions so

drastic and messy upon bodies that are

much too beautiful to be in pain?

Some minds may have these images

carved into their walls, but no carvings upon this supple skin

or held guns in hands,

but these thoughts are still there, you see.

These minds should be much more

pure than they've become over the years

with thoughts of blades

and cuts

and burns

and pulling out your hair so much to the point you have what you like to call,

"The Dead Zone."

Because hair refuses to grow back.

Please, for the love of anything up there that may help, keep these new minds brewing in stomachs, pure, and wipe these thought of guns held in hands and knives held in hands, and blades hele in hands and marks carved into supple skin from your own, and lively, without intent to hurt, and only intent to brew happiness...

~Melatonin OD.~