I swear if I have to read
one more poem
of someone cutting themselves
I’m going to cut myself.
Really deep.
And then I’ll write a poem about it.
Here's what it'll say-
"Feigning regret,
actually in love
with my inspirational wounds.
Red badge of courage,
each drop a potential thought
rushing my veins
towards my choking brain
before fading to black."
Fading to black. That's good enough.
Good enough even to be a poet's
final line.
Or actually, not really.
The hindsight bias
of the living is the most cruel.
And the scars of wounded emotion
on my wrists and arms
would sting as I write onwards.
Because I survive, like I always do,
searching for a worthy final line...
My house is now filled with razor blades
and bloody pens.
© 2016 Parker Jennings
;)
Duce
almost 5 yearsI absolutely agree w/ you on that score brother.
I wrote (my version of) a haiku about cutters that is similar, it's called "The Cutter". You should check it out when you get the chance, I'm sure you'll enjoy it.
Great job here though, my man.
-Duce