Wednesday, 11 September 2013

suicidal pain. poem

I hold my wrist, it's bleeding out
onto the bed sheets, once fresh laundered cotton
the crimson will stain, this mark wont wash away
they'll find my lifeless corpse later today
how long will it take, my face has gone white
I dip a finger in the blood it's an awful sight
a puddle of red in the palm of my hand
running down my arm into the bed
I thought I'd do both, but now the scissors are on the floor
jagged and scarlet where I let them fall
my arm is too weak to do the deed again
it hurt more than I thought, suicidal pain.

(note: This is a fictional piece and does not refer to anybody particular, only a serious issue)

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