I cut teeth as a baby, I cut class in school, I didn't make the cut for football, I cut farts a lot, as a kid, big long rips, I got cut once or twice in the Marines, I cut an umbilical cord on a baby I delivered, I cut the leash off a drowning puppy in an icy lake, while the mother tried to slash my throat with her teeth, A good friend cut my wrist when we were box-cutting at work, I bled like a stuck pig, and squirted it at the police officer when he pulled us over on the way to the E.R.....
He cut in front of us sirens blaring
the rest of the way. I cut my mamas hair .... a small lock just
before they cremated her, I cut off my sister who has 13 kids
and always wanted a handout and then abuses me
when it isn't enough, I cut down on smoking and then quit, I cut off a sweater I was wearing that caught fire, I stood on a high bridge and thought about jumping over some stupid girl
who had left me, then I cut and ran from there leaving death behind I cut in a few lines and got primo seats, I cut some coke in my time but realized it was
snot fun anymore, I've cut my fair share of cards, and big piles of cash, I've kissed the cuts of little ones and made them better,
"I wish I could do that for you ...cause I've never cut myself, but I've gone to get some who did..."
One boy in the Marines swallowed eight razor blades
just to get out of boot camp. he broke 'em in half,
and swallowed them
but he lived............. of course he wrecked
his stomach and his diet
for a long time.
But you know.... if I had cut myself
bad enough I might never
have been able to think back now
on all the joy and love, lust and sheer pleasure,
thrills and chills and pain and sorrow
that made me stronger.
Things I might have missed for the split second
joy of slicing my flesh. and I am so glad that I left any cutting scars
out of my memory. maybe it's time
you cut it out and started to live... before God calls
out the end of your next
with a loud...."Cut.!!......."
Slash a gash till you look like a road map.
Numerous red lines crisscrossing white flesh, each a highway to alleviate depression.
Scars are the cliff notes, from your book of sorrows.
It is where you jumped off reality.
Does it really get the attention you crave?
Why not just slash your face? Then you'll really get noticed.
No more hiding the marks of your despair, under long sleeves, show the world that you can cut it but only if you do, cut it that is.
But don't cut to deep, there's an artery or vein in there with your name on it.
Most lovers prefer their partners unmarked, there is something unsettling about caressing skin that feels like a screen door, which makes for a good exit line.
Find a dart board and post your picture on it, then whale away with sharp points, till you can't see yourself whole anymore.
Enlarge an inter-net picture of yourself, life size, mount it on some plasterboard, over some Hollywood stage blood bags, and slash your pseudo self, into a bloodspattered frenzy.
There are much better solutions then blood, Know that as a poet, I love you, and understand angst and despair.
I have slashed over 4,000 times with a pen, a pencil, some keys, and let my poems bleed my feelings, No scars, just lines of comfort. My fingers can cut what I don't like, erase what is unsightly, and let others notice me.
Try a new form of cutting, cut me down for this poem, take a slice of my heart, at least it will keep your hands busy, and you won't have time to be cutting yourself down.
Cut out this poem and put it next to your knife, your razor, your band-aids your downfall, then read it before you play Tic-tack- doe-doe, on your flesh again.
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