My poems are garbage. Rubbish. Trash. The refuse of my soul that I fling out and let the paper catch. The paper is a cage, and it holds back the sorrows of my soul. The lines of words are the bars of the prison which house the inmates. It is trash. But there is a tragic beauty in soul trash. And if you read carefully through the lines, you just may catch a glimpse of it.
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Stories by RaquelMinard
Scarlet Picture
Self harm is real. Yes, there are those who do it for attention, but so so many are just desperately hurting.
Tattered Heart
My self harm struggles. This isn't a very good poem as far as poems go. It's more of a warning. Words have su...
Both or None
At one time there was hope in the world this story describes. And that hope was light. But then it disappeare...
