PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I eat my food eager to clean,
To clean dishes and run,
To run to my room upstairs,
Upstairs with a thin piece of metal,
A piece of metal that will pierce my skin,
Though it's sharp and the first time I cry,
Soon the pain is nothing,
The feeling is nothing,
It is not deep, for I'm precautious,
It is not a scratch, for the urge pushes further,
The paint not running, but resting on memory,
The memory that scars,
The scars that still bleed,
The bleeding will never stop,
The yelling doesn't stop,
The red seems to thicken,
No longer watery paint,
It's harder like the memory's I try to rid,
Its haunting like the promises not kept,
It's thick like the sap that runs,
From a cut tree.