03-03-04
There are so many cuts
to count on my wrists.
To many days in a week
That acctually fit.
To late in the night
And to early in the day
To make this life go into cuts...
Which don't go away.
After all this hell
You put me through
I am still going back to you.
These cuts go so deeply in my skin
It seems like they
Are my only friend.
I've been nice all I could
And it seems that I should be understood.
My heart is broken,
I am a loner
And my wrists have a lot of
Cuts.
© 2006 CrumbledRosePetals
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Printed from www.DarkPoetry.com/dp/13026/88303 on Monday October 06th, 2008 01:22 PM
Certain elements © 1996-2008 Matthew Steven (matts.org)
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