some poems from my book of 100 poems by me. So far, I have 80
#74- 10-20-03 - As i layed in my bed to rest, I realized then that life was just a test. But I don't worry and I won't cry, and I don't give a ******** if angels die. Sure I'll curse once my life goes by, and of course I'm afraid to die. But my time on earth has been spent. finaly I know what it all ment. Deamons should never shed tears, but I can't help it, its because of my damned fears. so what if I've been damned to hell, and who cares if its not exactly "swell". yest strongly I feel like I belong, and even if I am weak, I'll stay strong. so now i finally can see that there truely is a good demon within me.
#55- 3-4-03 -look at all the scars, a few almost look like stars.
over 52 to be exact, where blood would extract.
up and down her arm, each one has its charm.
a letter on her breast, that one was a test.
never sliced her wrist, that would be too much of a risk.
scritch scratch up her arm she will go, and watch the tiny dropplets flow.
No tears nor an expression of life, just a steady hand as she hold the razor or knife.
no ouches or painful moans, just silence in the room.
as she finishes her little game, she starts to feel the pain.
so once again she cuts in deeper and deeper in.
faster and faster her motion goes, why does she do it, know one knows.
salty liquid rushing out, on her arm, on her bed, all about.
she laps it up with her tongue tip, smacking and licking at her lip.
she looks at her self, places the razer upon her shelf.
a tear falls from an eye, she tries not to cry.
she yells at her reflection, bitching at the infection.
silence all around, not one single sound.
falls upon her knees, she knows what she sees.
a smiles across her face, a strand of hair falls like black lace.
she is one of a kind, no one has her mind.
proud of who she is, she blows herself a kiss.
no more scars on her arm, no more causing harm.
52 will be the last, they should hear fast.
happy once again, she found herself, her friend.
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