It’s not what you think. I promise. You’d never understand. |
The cuts aren’t working But the pain is still lurking No amount of help Nothing but the endless sea of hell “Do this” they say But I forget the cause is normally of something of joy They don’t see it that way It’s just another ploy The sibling is precious: so kind so sweet But to see her on a personal level? No. We shall never get to meet The family is treasure: so strong so real But to see it on a functional level? No. We shall never come to agree The friendship is iron: so true so unbreakable But to see it in action? No. Only in fractions The community is golden: so warm so welcoming But to see it hold through war? No. Only its looting The human race is chosen: so bonded so united But to see it band together? No. We shall only see our smiting But my comfort isn’t the lacerations Nor the talking Or the game stations It comes in a form so subtle One where only the whispers are the spoken Where the pen can be heard Scratching out for tokens Me among my people We all understand each other And all of us know That each of us are cutters Yet when the word spreads Do any of us testify? No, because we know The results will terrify Back to back, we hold ourselves Arching to save our partner But when the rain falls So do we And when the others see us flail They watch us like a show Hands are never extended We hit the ground like snow And speaking of extending hands When do we get our olive branch? Why isn’t ours there? Probably because our blood will run it red And speaking of the falling snow People criticize us, they mock us But what they don’t know, is we have no where else to go Only the cutters understand one another, We support one another, But what does it come to? Just losing one another The leftovers are left for grieving We must sweep up the shards Our brethren had had it hard And they couldn’t take it. Who could blame them? We join by band Our running love our bond Yet the others won’t let us take the stand So can we still stand strong? Our numbers are blooming Our side is swelling When will the population start telling Our story is one of their dooming How can they stand so proud? So true? Doesn’t their own selves make them sick? Always saying: “I don’t care about you” We cutters stand in our own words How can we not? It’s our only place left in the world But, what is a cutter? Isn’t it the one who cut themselves? Aren’t they the ones, Who bathe in their sorrows through blood? You just might say They’re the swine of society The ones who do nothing but sulk But, I urge you, forget your stereotypical way The cutter is a general word A person who cuts something But what is blurred Our own skin? No Words are what matter They create the literal flow We cut the words from our minds We swirl them into words that give spine The words written are the ones cut They create and destroy the ruts We are the carvers We are the creators We are the destroyers We are the writers We are the cutters So, I remind you The cuts are not working The pain is still lurking There is no amount of help In this endless sea of hell What might be this hell? Well, the answer is quite simple It’s the world, of course Or maybe the works of our remorse Again, whatever the case may be It doesn’t matter It doesn’t matter Just like how we don’t matter We are the heroes of slashes We are the unsung champions of harm We are the writers of blood We are the creators of pained arms We are the writers We are the cutters |