Welcome to My Poetry Site
47,442 poems read
“Cutting”
She didn’t know,
How to express,
All the pain,
She continuously felt,
Rising from,
The very core,
Of her being.
She had to do,
Something,
It had to get out,
She had to mute,
The pain.
She sat in her room,
Alone,
Again,
Curtains always drawn,
Mirror looking back,
Piece of wood,
Jammed under the door,
No surprise entries.
Today,
It was just,
Too much,
She fights the pain,
With more pain,
She opens a journal,
Lying on top,
Of her dresser,
In the center of it,
Is a razor blade,
She pulls a lighter,
Out of her purse,
Puts her thumb,
On the metal roller,
Of the lighter,
And grinds it against,
The flint,
Then she runs,
The edge of the blade,
Over the flame,
Grabs a fresh Kleenex,
And wipes the soot,
From the blade,
Pulls up the sleeve,
Of her left arm,
And touches,
The corner of the blade,
To her skin,
She presses lightly,
As she drags it,
Across her upper,
Forearm,
The blade catching,
And skipping,
Against her skin,
A couple of small,
Dashes of red,
Slowly appear.
She looks at,
The cuts,
And squeezes the skin,
Around them,
Forcing out,
A little more blood,
Then takes a Kleenex,
And blots up,
The blood,
Takes the razor,
And puts the,
Corner edge,
A little bit above,
The first cut,
And pushes it down,
Harder,
And smoothly,
Glides the blade,
Across her skin,
Embracing the pain,
As if it was,
Helping her,
The blood,
This time,
Easily filters out,
Of the cut,
She watches the blood,
As it rises,
Above the wound,
In till enough,
Had gathered,
To form a small,
Pool,
Which then ran,
Down the side,
Of her arm,
She rested her,
Left arm,
On the table,
Picked up a pen,
And began to write,
On the page,
Of her journal,
That had held,
The razor blade,
Against it.
She dated the page,
And wrote,
“I cut again today”,
“I don’t know why”,
“It was all”,
“I could think to do”,
“They wouldn’t understand”,
“They couldn’t understand”,
“Somedays”,
“It’s all just”,
“Too much”.
She took her finger,
From her right hand,
And dipped it,
In to the blood,
On her left arm,
And then made,
A finger print,
In her journal,
Underneath,
What she had,
Just wrote,
She dropped,
The razor blade,
Back onto,
The same page,
And fanned,
The other pages,
Of her journal,
Preceding it,
As she did,
You could see,
Numerus red blotches,
Flash by.
She closed the journal,
Then took,
A couple of Kleenex,
To wipe off,
The blood,
On her cuts,
Moistening one,
Against her lips,
To wipe off,
The dried blood,
Trail,
That ran down,
The side of her arm.
She grabbed,
Two Band-Aids,
Out of her drawer,
That had,
Barbie characters,
On them,
And put them over,
The two,
Now dry,
Scars,
She rolled down,
Her left sleeve,
Checked her look,
In the mirror,
Then went,
Downstairs,
It was Monday,
Her mom,
Was making meatloaf,
For dinner…
Tom Allen…06-09-2017…
She didn’t know,
How to express,
All the pain,
She continuously felt,
Rising from,
The very core,
Of her being.
She had to do,
Something,
It had to get out,
She had to mute,
The pain.
She sat in her room,
Alone,
Again,
Curtains always drawn,
Mirror looking back,
Piece of wood,
Jammed under the door,
No surprise entries.
Today,
It was just,
Too much,
She fights the pain,
With more pain,
She opens a journal,
Lying on top,
Of her dresser,
In the center of it,
Is a razor blade,
She pulls a lighter,
Out of her purse,
Puts her thumb,
On the metal roller,
Of the lighter,
And grinds it against,
The flint,
Then she runs,
The edge of the blade,
Over the flame,
Grabs a fresh Kleenex,
And wipes the soot,
From the blade,
Pulls up the sleeve,
Of her left arm,
And touches,
The corner of the blade,
To her skin,
She presses lightly,
As she drags it,
Across her upper,
Forearm,
The blade catching,
And skipping,
Against her skin,
A couple of small,
Dashes of red,
Slowly appear.
She looks at,
The cuts,
And squeezes the skin,
Around them,
Forcing out,
A little more blood,
Then takes a Kleenex,
And blots up,
The blood,
Takes the razor,
And puts the,
Corner edge,
A little bit above,
The first cut,
And pushes it down,
Harder,
And smoothly,
Glides the blade,
Across her skin,
Embracing the pain,
As if it was,
Helping her,
The blood,
This time,
Easily filters out,
Of the cut,
She watches the blood,
As it rises,
Above the wound,
In till enough,
Had gathered,
To form a small,
Pool,
Which then ran,
Down the side,
Of her arm,
She rested her,
Left arm,
On the table,
Picked up a pen,
And began to write,
On the page,
Of her journal,
That had held,
The razor blade,
Against it.
She dated the page,
And wrote,
“I cut again today”,
“I don’t know why”,
“It was all”,
“I could think to do”,
“They wouldn’t understand”,
“They couldn’t understand”,
“Somedays”,
“It’s all just”,
“Too much”.
She took her finger,
From her right hand,
And dipped it,
In to the blood,
On her left arm,
And then made,
A finger print,
In her journal,
Underneath,
What she had,
Just wrote,
She dropped,
The razor blade,
Back onto,
The same page,
And fanned,
The other pages,
Of her journal,
Preceding it,
As she did,
You could see,
Numerus red blotches,
Flash by.
She closed the journal,
Then took,
A couple of Kleenex,
To wipe off,
The blood,
On her cuts,
Moistening one,
Against her lips,
To wipe off,
The dried blood,
Trail,
That ran down,
The side of her arm.
She grabbed,
Two Band-Aids,
Out of her drawer,
That had,
Barbie characters,
On them,
And put them over,
The two,
Now dry,
Scars,
She rolled down,
Her left sleeve,
Checked her look,
In the mirror,
Then went,
Downstairs,
It was Monday,
Her mom,
Was making meatloaf,
For dinner…
Tom Allen…06-09-2017…