It was an
Extroverted expression
Of his
Introverted self,
Those carvings
In his delicate flesh.
Sadly,
It was a flesh
He wished he could cut himself
Free of.
He bore the
Weight of his world
Not on his back,
But on the
Top of his razor.
The indignant weight
Slowly pushing his blade
Deeper each time.
His scars
Will never heal
If he keeps cutting,
But what if he never
Wanted them to
Heal
In the first place?
YOU ARE READING
Writing from a Broken Pen
PoetryThe story of my life thus far, and its many ups and downs.
