He was an artist,
But only at night,
When everyone was sleeping,
And he was out of sight.
He would pull up his sleeve,
And out came his blade,
Then he'd look at the floor,
To see the mess he'd made.
He looked at his scars,
Then down to the floor,
Then up to the stars,
Wishing he wasn't alive anymore
He got out the note he'd written,
The noose he'd tied,
Went down to the tree,
And there he died.
YOU ARE READING
The life of a self-harmer
Poetry#66 (22/6/17) Don't judge, listen. If you don't like what you see then leave. some simple poems or quotes on the life of a self-harmer. I am in no way promoting self-harm and if anyone ever needs help or advice or just cheering up, I'm always here...
