Blood stains my body like wine dribbled on a carpet from careless hands,
my lips though they may be scrubbed, are dirtied by own remorse.
Remorse for my very own faults, I pity my self for the pain that I put myself in.
This pain of mine is not caused by anything or anyone else but my own mind.
I may call it my friend, or the monster that lives in my bed, but this thing, it's all in my head.
I complain all the time about how this body of mine is constantly rejecting me, myself, and I, but really I am rejecting my own peace of mind.
It is like I have two different half's of me, the side that wants to get better and then there is the side that is constantly setting my progress aside.
I say I want to heal, but somewhere deep inside, I like the pain that is destroying my hands, my lips, and most of all my split mind.
YOU ARE READING
The Trees Talk
PoetryThe trees talk, they know what goes through your mind. The trees, they scream. +previously Perfection and Deception+
