I sit in the dark. A shadow to my sins.
Cuts all over but where does it begin.
The pain falls everywhere but stronger inside,
No one understands so in darkness I hide.
The loneliness enters as the pain melts away
But I still cry to myself. Maybe itll be gone one day.
But my hair still covers what the world doesn’t know.
Feelings of happiness that’ll never show.
My wrist is a canvas. My razor a brush.
Why can I create art with a single touch.
The night calls and when it rains I cry.
No matter how damaged the heart maybe. I wonder why doesn't it die?
as the title suggests it is regarding the day to day experience of an emo.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Beautiful. Dark and disturbingly realistic, with a heart wrenching perspective that feels so real. My face screws into a mournful look of understanding as I read the words. Great job with the imagery of the cuts, and the comparison of a work of art, with the knife being the brush. How natural and lovely you make something so dark sound. Very easy to relate too; good simple language with such deep feelings behind it. This is by far the best poem I have read on this sight for weeks. Please post more, I will read every word that you say.