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I walk on the dark moors and dance with the wolves. I don't want to go home, where reality rules. my fingers are crossed. a sword in my hand. my soul will fight, to stay in this land.
“I’m alone and I don’t even care anymore.” Is what I have convinced myself. When can I stop pretending?
Smooth wooden handle 6 inches, nearly 10 when flicked open to reveal stainless steel The blade marred only by a few oily fingerprints and a speck of brown It smells of dust and of dried blood
How am I supposed to move on? Your everywhere I go I don’t like the darkness anymore I’m scared I’ll see you I don’t like dreaming
Dear You, This is my least favorite part of my day. I can never escape her eyes. And my body can never escape her judgments. "Bent, broken, barbed" That's all she seems to say as her nails
In Red is where my life is. That large blaring red light that deserves a sound but doesn't have one. I am swimming in this pool of red, Unlike anyone I know.
Crazy maiden in the woods tracked her down as best I could She and I both bruised and bled. My leg was lame. She sought me dead. A tear-smudged face, a curdling cry A deadly grace,
A knife Is so innocent with the potential for so much harm. So shiny, so pristine when maintained. I’ve imagined those knives in the kitchen, So sharp with their ebony handles, Plunged into my chest
A dark hole has nothing on this so-called life A dark hole is a haven to me. But life? Life cuts at you like a knife. And just as you escape the strife It tears you down once more
It hit me one night on tumblr a blog i stumbled upon with a bio that sounded a LOT like my old best friend we never fell out our friendship never ended
swing the blade and bring it down hit the neck and free the cord let it wriggle and bleed a little bag the rest and bury the sword
Painful. Like a knife to the heart. Words that sting, burn, and engrave my heart. My poker face too good? Or you just dont care? I said something stupid. I wont do it again. But you insist to make your point. Words. You won.
Paper's there to listen when the earth has tuned me out, Poetry's the pillow that takes my angry shout, And writing is the friend that never fails to say, "Hello." It doesn't need to rhyme and it doesn't need to flow--
Careful where you point the knife. You might just take a life. Whether it be someone unknown. Or it even be your wife. Careful where you point the knife. For it tells no lies.