Knife's Edge

I stare at my blade,
And all I see is a tool of war,
Made not for a time of peace,
But for a moment of war,
To inflict pain and suffering,
Not to help and ease,
People say they are proud,
Of there kill count with a blade,
The cold, sharp and unforgiving edge,
That does not discriminate,
On who it inflicts it's pain,
The edge is hungry,
And wants to be fed,
With the blood of it's victims
Can you resist,
It's call for blood

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Silent sanctuary

so much I wish I could say but know I shouldn't utter a word.
silence is my sanctuary
haven't you heard? out of the whispers
a bleak void is what separates this voice from that choice to say
what would slice you up into oozing chunks of aching flesh
take your mind & contort the rest.
I am the bruise inside
the purple faded on pale rough skin.


when in doubt, i'll cut it out
all the pain within..
you may judge what I speak
but it'll come straight back to you.
your face is like a terrible sin
a memory that freezes me in between motion
crumpling my bones
suddenly everything gets so cold.


trust not what is seen
for it lies through gorgeous white teeth
& beautiful eyes, they undress you in vulgar ways
& ears that don't know what you mean.
& it feels as if theres a knife being pushed into your throat..
unable to escape.
only option left
is cry your heart out
in hopes of being saved

Intoxicating Scars

You can't see them on my hand when i make a fist,

All the designs of the blade dragged across my wrist.

Indentations on my elbow that didn't do much harm,

Twenty-four of them I've counted, and that was just my arm.


There is one on my face right under my eye,

So if you were to punch me, brown tears i would cry.

Now my foot is broken and they are on my toes,

Why i have been limping, no one really knows.


If i could rearrange them, i could spell my name on my knee.

If i was any more depressed the more cuts there would be.

There are dozens across my tummy from when you called me fat.

They form lines down my back so im a rougher mat.


You do not know how many because they are covered by my clothes. 

But if you look close enough you can see some near my nose.

There are times when you curse me and i want to cut deep

but if i do, i'll lay down and never wake from sleep.


Sometimes i sit back and wonder how long it will take,

before i solve all my problems with the cuts i make.

My friends want to help me but all i have to say 

is "If you truly wish to help me you will stay out of my way."


I hate my life so much i only want to cry,

but do not be mistaken i do not wish to die.

When my problems go away and i feel no pain,

I'll stop cutting my arm cloud, and watching red acid rain.


When you give back the key to my happiness, locked behind steel bars;

I will throw away my knife and stop with these intoxicating scars.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This is a poem I wrote last year about seeking comfort in cutting to avoid depression

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Breathe Blood

Breathe Blood when it's in your skin.
Breathe Blood when it's out of it.

Breathe Blood when it's innocent.
No longer in your skin.

A razor will bring it out of it.

Yes, a lovely, gorgeous, delectable razor will do it all.
I know it may be wrong.

But the feeling is just so strong.
And it doesn't take too long.

I'll cut deep,
And I'll cut a stream.

To Bleed is to go deep.

I've fallen to the floor,
There is blood galore.

I'm bleeding and drowning
I'm drowning and counting

How many seconds I have until I'm dead.
And drowning in what's left.

Breathe Blood when your inhaling it

Breathe Blood when it's in your head

Breathe Blood when it's in your lungs.

Breathe Blood Until you're done.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This is another horrible, ugly, deathly, and brutal little poem, I think it's so cute though. But very unpleasant. Again, I'm not suicidal. I just like writing ugly little deathly poems like this, about it.

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Selective Suicide

A Gun or a Rope
Some Pills or to Choke

I'll Cut Deep With a Knife
Until I Bleed Out and Die

Overdose will be considered at most.

Pills and Alcohol
May solve it all

I Want to choke,
But I need a rope

Just put a fucking gun to my head,
Let's end it, that's what I said.

A Beautiful ending
To my life Descending.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This is an ugly little poem about suicide. I wrote it in the mind of someone suicidal. I am not not suicidal. I just like writhing deathly little ugly poems like this.

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Another Year

Another year has come and gone, what am I doing wrong?
How far I have gone?
I have to ask it.
Life is hard and I have barely passed,
What have I accomplish in my life, other than surviving by the knife.
Maybe if I accomplish something I would not have to fight.
I feel a knocking at my soul. It is God or some I’m told.
I close my eyes hoping it would go away but it’s still there the next day.
How many more roads do I have to walk down before my life unfolds?
I am lost in a maze looking for faith but all I see is a darken haze.
There is an angel without a halo leading me astray.
I am compelled to following the shadows every day, mocking death with every breath.
Where do I go from here, when there is nothing but fear?

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Lifes a lie,
I won't yelp.
But I cry,
I need help.
Nothing anyone will do,
And no one truly cares.
It's nothing new,
It constantly tares.
And along with tears,
Comes blood and scars.
It all really sears,
Hidden unlike cars.
Help is not asked,
Because they just ignore.
I feel like an outcast,
It digs to my core.
One day Ill cut deep,
Purpose or accident?
The knife will seep,
Ill find out what I meant.
Suicide or a slip,
Either ones great.
Knife will take a dip,
Everything and everyone will be to late.

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Blood heats, then begins to boil.
Electric flows with the clock's ever toil.
Chocking back screams,
Liquid pouring at the seams.
Lying in crimson this time,
And still see the shine.
Wrists are bloody and gory,
The dripping itself telling a story.
Bubbles of red dot the lips,
Not matching the blue of the fingertips.
A smile curved at the mouth,
The twisted visage oh-so foul.
Never looked so at peace before,
So the knife twists for even more.
The grating of the knife against bone,
Didn't even seem to be known.
Every second collecting dust,
Doesn't seem to diminish death's lust.
Then flesh begins to burn,
Insides slowly rot and turn.
You've set me up to fail this time,
And now, death's embrace is mine.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

No, I'm not suicidal.

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The Satanists


An elderly man was trying to take his luggage and observe the Millenium Biltmore Hotel,
As he was struggling in the hall section,
All the other people just passed by him as if he wasn't even there,
They practically ignored him,
As the Pagan Days Festival was ending at another section of the hotel,
Satanists stood and offered the elderly man help,
Suddenly everyone is at an awe,
All the hotel guests that was present knew what was the right thing to do,
but the Satanists were the only ones who did it.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This was actually an experience I had with the High Priest Michael S. Margolin of the Sinagogue of Satan (and other members) at Pagan Days Fest 2007. This piece has won a couple of certificates and was also published in two books; "Whispers - A Collection of Short Works" and "Great Poems Of The Western World"

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