They took them away.
All of my razor blades.
I kept buying more.
Wished I could run out of days.
When they stopped,
caring about my heart.
My little knives were torn apart.
Blood drops on the floor like modern art.
Beauty in the dead, sleeves sticky and red.
I wonder if this pencil lead is all I have left.
I follow the compass and go straight.
Yet I still feel the anger, sadness and hate.
I live in the present forgeting my past.
Stop haunting my memories, keep going and pass.
Where is my future, forgotten forever fading.
Where is my hope, helplessly hanging to dear life.
Rusted and flustered it won't work.
My razor blade so dull and slurred.
Nothing left to slit I can't be hurt.
Grinded down I'm worse than my worth.
My empty promises were nothing but dirt. (I'm fine. And idk why all my poetry seems so depressing. Ig I am just feeling this in the moment. Like a razor blade.)
YOU ARE READING
Old poems (editing in progress)
PoezieSometimes, I just want to see something I can look at in a million ways.
