PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I wait, all night but my friends never come, they lied,

Almost two months pass and this goes on, never going out,

During the day yes, but a friday to sunday night, never,

Watching the time slowly slip and fade away, forever gone.



Looking at the silver blade, over and over, watching it,

Knowing it's my friend and yet my enemy, why do I like it?

Cutting bad things from me, one cut and flow and its gone, away forever,

Did I cut my friends away? No here they are, monday night.



Friday rolls around, they don't show, I reach for the blade,

Firmly grasping it in my right hand, my left wrist bare,

So neat is the cut, like a surgeon's, then it flows,

My crimson rivers of blood down creamy pale skin, painless.



Not regretting it, I wake up my wrist sore, bandaged up, ow,

Looking around I see a nurse, no friends and family, just a nurse,

Looking me up and down she tuts, i'm lucky i'm alive, found by a friend,

Returning to my bedside my best friend weeps and holds my hand tight.



A week later it's my other wrist, crimson blood on creamy flesh,

Back in hospital, again from my best friend, and she's weeping again,

My wrist sore and bandaged, again, this is the last time,

Staying in hospital this time, my life cracked up completely.



I say my goodbye's to my friends and they leave, I smile,

Creeping off I steal a surgeons scalpel and wait 'till they return,

The next day they watch in horror as I cut deep and true,

Crimson rivers flow, the machine beeps, i'm dead, forever.