Voices
Cut my wrist,
And darken my eyes.
Soften those voices,
Quiet their lies.
It's all the same,
The past will return.
The marks on my wrists,
Are now starting to burn.
Nothing can shake them,
Silence the sound.
All of the voices,
Are breaking me down.
My head says no,
But my heart begs and pleads.
Sitting here, crying,
While my wrist slowly bleeds.
Copyright © Amanda Smith | Year Posted 2011
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