Her Poem For Help
She wrote her poem, with a slick razor blade,
Down the length of her thighs,
A poem about feeling erased and lost,
Where nobody cared if she dies,
And so many tears went into her verse,
Her verse that was coloured in red,
With short lines and long, small, wide and deep,
Revealing the moments she bled,
And the reviews flew in, judging her work,
Saying her poem was a dull cry of despair,
Ignoring the meaning behind what she wrote,
Her needing their help and their care,
Then she mistakenly thought she knew what to do
To forever be left right alone,
And she wrote her last verse on a little tin plate,
That now sits atop her headstone.
Copyright © Lewis Raynes | Year Posted 2018
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