Cutting Poems - Poems about Cutting

A poetry virgin... that was me going through a purple patch, a dismal dark period in life Desperately needing an outlet to focus on instead of the now... this trying time I had to endure I joined Poetry Soup to have fun My ultimate aim was just to bring a smile to others. But 'HE' couldn’t stand the fact that what I called my simple...

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I planned futures with you, but your happiness came first. When anger calls, you shut off I must stay composed, must communicate, must hold it all together. Smile. Talk nice. The bare minimum is not enough. Imagine giving your life to someone who would build with you, then leave when joy runs dry. Words once meant something. Vows weren’t meant to break. I could climb mountains, cross oceans, fly the...

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Haven’t you heard Didn’t they caution I make haters Why they exist Why...

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I run my hand across my wrist, The rough scars feel normal under my fingers, But to anyone else, they would be foreign. I was a fighter, I had to be, But everything has its consequences. Running the blade across my own wrist was mine, It was the only way for me to feel something. Since I was small I was forced...

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plans incised on plain paper careful calligraphy of a plane sailing high above the clouds shrouded in anticipation veiled in smudges and tears slowly running out of ink resolute fears fuel the fire earthquakes resurface nebulous horizons and I have not the foggiest idea uncertainty shapes a landscape full of thunder and lightening a sinkhole for rainbows handing over completely to what to whom to when a seeming...

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Ironic we live in a time when partial people Feel the need to cut off parts To be more whole These parts can range From friends and family, home and culture To their own distinctive body But the effect is the same Individuals made even less In their effort to be something more (1/2/25) ...

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Like ancient rivers carved in stone, These marks tell tales of storms now flown, Of battles fought when night was long, Of learning, slowly, to belong. These faded paths upon my skin Speak not of where I've fallen, but where I've been— Each one a chapter, not an end, A reminder of my power to mend. They whisper now of distant days, Of how...

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Sometimes I wonder If I’m living a lie I sit back in silence As each day passes by I ponder every word you release Most of your words Are words that cut deep I’ve learned over time Not to hold what you say I let them go easy So they don’t penetrate Sick of your ego Fed up with your pride It marks up your character Makes you ugly...

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I understand You’ve never held that knife in your hand to need the pain it can cause And for your thoughts to stop I...

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What of pride and presentation When time is short in duration? An octagon out of a square... Proverbial scissors used there. It is what it is - this, I hear Constantly in and out each ear. A triangle meets hexagon In repetition, on and on. Input dried of saturation... Effort tried, no compensation. Ongoing instances of these Bring situations to their knees. When unavailability Of resources persists to...

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The duck has great features others lack - Like water runs right off his back. But for this hack, it’s too much work To address that green-headed jerk....

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Our final night in Montreal, To take a break from fries, We saw a nice Italian place We thought we’d patronize. We ordered salad, beer and wine And, perfect for our sharing, An interesting pizza Which they took their time preparing. When it came out, we were surprised For, though it looked enticing, It was a perfect circle Which no one had started slicing. The waitress then...

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In the back floorboard empty Boones Farm bottles, rattled to the rhythm of lust without love. Fourteen and her world was a different backseat, staring at another gray rooftop above. He’d abandoned them so many years ago, it was hard for her to remember his face. Each new boy now was her attempt to find him, but a father’s love was hard...

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Tear by on a Friday Doing 75 down Sharon Road Short cut up north through the federal woods Back here No one knows from US-127 About the clear-cutting as far as the eye can see Or the heads of hills chopped off and rolling And curves of road that’ve lost their will To bend A mailbox shakes in my scissor wake With no house or...

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Sky filters through scant woods printing a cold sunlight on shadowed tree trunks. Only December has this light, it both scours and forages, it scythes away all heaped-up flotsam. A December wind, sings its own death song. Ice hangs unseen upon the air. The woodland acres shimmer, then tremble upon a long fading note, one that ushers in last rites and other mixed blessings....

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