By JFarrell


I suppose,

We all have scars;

Visible ones,

Not the ones that scar our hearts,

Our minds,

Those are important too.



The scars on my wrists,

Are what draw my attention.

Ugly white lines,

Whiter than my skin;

Healed now, it was many years ago.

What should be ugly white lines,

Looks more like a tally score,

The scars from the stitches,

That stopped the life,

Pumping out of me.


The visible pulse of the artery

Brings a strange kind of life to the scar,

Makes it smile, as if laughing

At the eternal joke that is life.


I still remember that night,

My feelings,

The darkness of my thoughts,

The pain that drove me.

How can I not,

It was the last night I lived.


Until recently.

Someone, an angel, my queen,

Breathed life into me,

This long dead corpse.


I cannot say “Don’t do it”

That would make me a hypocrite,

After all, I did it.


There is always hope.

Please, be strong, believe;

There really, truly is HOPE.

And it is beautiful.


Author's Notes/Comments: 

there is hope, dont give up, please

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MVTSicky666's picture


Good job! I can relate to this, I once wrote a poem called 'Mutilation' (not published yet). I know the art of scars!

suicideslug's picture

thank you for your comment,

thank you for your comment, mutilating myself seemed important, once upon a time, am trying to be more constructive now