My Book of Poems

Scared to Live

I've thought about cutting.
I've held the blade on my arm.
But not close enough,
To do any harm.

There are some days that are normal.
Whereas some are tense.
On those days I think about it,
Why my life doesn't make sense.

I've become scared of life,
And attached to death.
But I don't know if I could
Actually take my last breath.

I know people who have cut.
They didn't seem to have a problem.
I don't know if I could do it.
It seems too hard of a solution.

I prefer to scratch myself.
At least it leaves a mark.
Even though I don't draw blood,
I'm drawn back to the dark.

My thoughts tell me to do it.
But my scarceness takes over.
This is what life has done to me.
Forced me to live slower.

I don't tell anyone of my thoughts.
They wouldn't understand.
They'd put me in solitude
For the marks below my hand.

I'm scared to live.
Because of how people judge me.
As much as I know,
Death is not the enemy.

I sit with my blade,
Hovering above my skin.
I know I won't do it.
But I like the thought of the end.