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.
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