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 |