Ugly Soul Home

These slender wrists are scarred, and marred from razor blade made cuts. Scissors that are too dull to do much. Anything sharp with a point have been on my skin, lines that are focal points. This is only flesh, I do not care. If I peeled off this layer and showed you my soul there would be something far uglier. This is no caterpillar turning a cocoon. I will not be a beautiful butterfly. I will not sprout wings, with pretty colorful patterns. There is no turning back, for I am damaged. Nothing will change as I walk among the dusted ground, and green paths. Maybe when I reach the throne and rest my crown at his feet. Only then I will feel pleasant in beautiful speak. For the path I'm on is dark, no redemption in sight. Try as I may I fail with all my might. Half of me is all you see. I'm just a shell so to speak. I am not embarrassed, and I have nothing to hide. For what? You honestly think I hold pride? It would be for a loved ones sake I'm meek. But still the pain it bothers and taunts me. Don't tell me things will pass, and it will get better. For you are no God, you do not know the future and my pain is my own. For I am grateful to companions who speak with their heartfelt tongues. But words are just words, they cannot fix feelings. My ugly feelings. I am inadequate in all that I do. Best thing I can do is write a poem about dying, my truth.