The crimson trails, liquid fire, life’s river
The decorate my arms, taking their own path
All destined for the same end, dripping off my fingers
Twisted fascination, morbid grin, pale skin
Riddled with cryptic messages, only I can understand
The pain seeps slowly out of me, wounds weeping my sorrows
Cleansing the pain from me, but it will return
As strong as before, and then my skin shall cry again
It pays for my own sins, my own unholy actions
Abusing the temple that is my body, a precious thing
If I so chose, I could drain the life away
Flee this world, going where pain can’t follow
Darkness would surround me, before I would live my dreams
Free of suffering, skin unmarked, pain a distant memory
And I can look down on the world and laugh
But how the pain hurts… And so I do what I can
To free myself of it’s grasp, if only for a few moments.

Ok, so I was feeling like writing a teen-angst poem, trying to make fun of other ones. Unfortunately, I like it, so I’m posting it. It seems even when I try to write bad poetry, I fail at it (Another writer’s words, not mine.)