Deepest Despair

Copyright, Deepest Despair


I’m sick of all this pain,
Driving me completely insane,
So I reach for the knife,
And release all my inner strife,
Wounds of velvet and red appear,
Deep, crimson and pristinely clear,
I don’t know why I began,
Fascinated by these crimson bands,
As blood falls to the floor,
Blood that stains forever more,
So I wonder if I’ll ever quit,
Do I have the will to over come it?
So I sit and raise the blade to my skin,
Throw my head back, set in a grin,
Relief is here to quiet the yearning,
But the relief leaves, and I’m left with longing,
A need to find release, a need to find liberation,
So I create more rivers of crimson.


Grab the knife,
Hidden in my desk,
I admire its sleek black handle,
Before I release my strife,

By putting it to action,
Against my skin,
Against my flesh,
Washing me in sin,

I make the first cut,
This one’s a bleeder,
I cut on the same spot again,
Making it deeper,

Then I grab some tissues,
And put them against my arm,
Watching the absorbance,
Of these tissues,
Stealing all my unwanted issues,

Then I throw them away,
Rusty red against chalky white,
Then its all over,
These feelings of sorrow,
Some happy time I have borrowed,
After awhile it’ll happen,
This catch 22 will start all over again.


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