What is wrong,
With my sick twisted head?
.
Why do I find pleasure,
Feeling the welts,
On my skin?
My fingers tracing,
Every one etched in.
.
Why do I find pleasure,
Seeing the blood,
Come from within?
Watching the red oozing,
From a line so thin.
.
Why do I enjoy,
The stinging pain?
My nerves in agony,
Wailing in vain.
.
Why do I enjoy,
The scabs and scars?
The bleeding stopped,
Faster than most cars.
.
How could one,
Enjoy this feat?
How could one,
Find pleasure meet?
.
What is wrong,
with my sick twisted head?
With all this,
is nothing else to be said?
.
Am I mad?
Am I insane?
Am I crazy?
What am I supposed to gain?
.
What is wrong,
with my sick twisted head?
Haven't I already,
wished to be dead?
YOU ARE READING
Clouds of Thought
PoetryPoetry is beautiful. Poetry isn't always clear. Poetry can be dark, or light, depending how you feel. Poetry derives from people's innermost thoughts and feelings, formed when one is Lost in the Clouds of Thought. Spiritual ~ #37 Poetry ~ #112
