I sit alone, it's all too much,
Why can't i just be dead,
I need to free the hurt inside,
So I cry my tears of red.
I watch the blood flow thick and fast,
As I cut deeper every day,
I open up my body,
To bleed my pain away
My body is engraved,
With the emotions of my heart,
My skin's the story of my soul,
I'm a living work of art.
The words read red and clear,
As more blood starts to flow,
I'm holding on to life right now,
But soon I'll let it go.
What have I got to live for,
But to hack into my skin?
Soon I'll make that final cut,
And end all that's within.
- 2nd March 2004, age 17 -
Its been nearly 5 years since somone last commented on this poem and i can understand why. Even without going into any concious detailing of it, it still overpowers the mind with deep melancholy, deepened further by the age of the poem and how the reader automatically feels (unless rather pessimistic) that you are different now and that in a way, the person who wrote this is dead. It may be 9 years old now but i cant be refused a comment because i still thought at the time that thunderbirds was real. The time scope is undefined but long and this itself causes a hint of the situation stretching out forever. And the use of the standard present tense emphasises it to make life into one continuation of the desribèd things. This seems to be the main factor that makes us sit and stare through the screen after reading it even nine years on. By the way... Sorry the comment is so so long; im pompous and long winded by nature.
You wrote those desperate words five years back Having lived you might have noticed that life is worth more than momentary disillutions
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The poem, though in my opinion now reads as childish and basic, sadly still rings true...9 years on, and these thoughts and actions still plague me. But oh how they have given me depth and strength. Best wishes to all x