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A Roses Thorn Bleeding Blood
Folder:
The Past That No Longer Remains
My wrists washes out in crimson,
staining my skin
and my clothes.
It's like watching a roses thorn
bleeding blood.
Fascinationg.
Calling my name.
Calling for my blood.
So....
I slit my wrists.
Watch the blood fall.
As it flows from my wrists.
From the roses thorn.
As a roses thorn bleeding blood,
my wrists carry on bleeding crimson.
It will not stop.
Not until the roses thorn,
quits bleeding blood.
Cutting poems
There are many cutting poems on this site. Are they trying to drum up sympathy? I think they all sound the same. They don't have any redeeming qualities. Try a barfing poem for a change, now that would be different.
My Secret River
It was never about attention
It was never about attention for me. Yeah I cut, but that was my way of relieving some of my pain. Yeah I wrote about it some, but in ways it was a cry for help. In other ways, I was saying how I feel and what was on my mind. In some parts, I was hoping that maybe by writing about it, it would make me want to not cut. I don't cut now and if I ever write about it now, it's in hopes of inspiring someone that does cut to stop cutting or to at least know someone understands.
*~Be Legendary ~ Ian Mascoe*
Hard to imagine anyone
Hard to imagine anyone linking vomit with romance but you never know.
Nice poem btw. Like the style. xP