***This poem doesn't rhyme, like all my others, but it showed my
feelings...isn't that what poetry's all about??***

Bleeding; seething
Heed my warning
Contemplating
Over life or death
Seldom do I speak of
Allowing my mind
To interpret
This meaning of self neglect
Hating; fading
In and out
A small voice inside
Cries. Pleads. Begs.
That I shall not do it again
Uncertainty bears down
Upon the bloodstained knife
Within my feeble, dying grasp
I take the sharp slab of steel
Teasing. Taunting.
I can't give in again.
I won't succumb to the habit
The growing, irresistible habit
That I have come to know
So passionately. So frequently.
Blood seeps, spews
Through my open wounds
The knife is calling; screaming
My cold, white knuckles grasp
The eternally abusive object
Should I?
Should I be inclined to bow?
To bow down to this...
This hideous, unforgiveable habit?
It has taken over me
My bones are dry...
For air is all too friendly
Open, revealing, air; oxygen
And blood.
The crimson, rotting, decaying blood
That wreaks havoc
In my overabused wrists
My veins are dry...deprived of life
Of blood.
Blood. The red death.
The red murder that I have encountered
That I have lived.
My heart aches to let it go
To let the cold, calming knife
Reveal my pleasure
Oh how I want it.
My body aches for it.
Yet there is something knocking...
Pounding at my soul's whim
To hold back. Hold back the knife.
The habit...





 
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