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Rated: 18+ · Other · Other · #1824568
A poem about cutting.
As the worn razor dances across my flesh

Crimson bubbles appear and relieve my stress

As far as society goes what I do is wrong

But it's a hard habbit ro quit when I've done it for so long

I instantly feel better when I see the blood drip

The cuts are always clean when I have a little slip

I've tried to quit but I just can't do it

My razor's name is buddy, he lifts me up when i feel like shit

People don't understand the way my mind works

They think that doping me up will cover me like a cork

But my contents are under pressure and I'm about to blow

I flirt with death and his big black crow

I'm not suicidal I just enjoy the high

The cuts cause red tears that my arm cries

I feel no pain just bliss

All it takes is the straight razor's kiss

Sometimes I make patterns with the blade

Other times I have to wash up the mess I've made

The sight of blood calms my racing mind

If you took a step into my mind there is no telling what you'll find

When parinoia creeps in this shuts it down

After the bloodstains dry they're a dirty brown

As the worn razor dances across my flesh

Crimson bubbles appear and relieve my stress

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