Wounded

Blood flows from my aching heart.
My veins, like tributaries finding their way
to the sea, guide it to the cut I've made.
Droplets spilling, as my wound weeps in
pity for my tormented mind.

In this there is some solace.
A precarious comfort, like a tiny cabin
nestled in treacherous mountains.
Endless peace, but always the risk of
avalanche to smother wishful thinking.

Every day my heart struggles.
Searching for the strength that will force
my mind to go on another day.
To stop drawing those crimson lines
that are scarring my weary soul.

Living life with a mind polluted.
My heart cries out in agony,
so tired of blood lost down the drain.
Digging ever deeper to be strong,
dreaming of an end to this torture of self.