red basket weave

Upon wrists lay scars criss-crossed in pink. Drawn from the razor thats dressed in red ink. Cold blood drips down the arm of the innocent. At 15 she is still only an infant. Slashing her wrists and popping pills, its a pity. The cut, drowning her in obscurity. She lies trembling desolate. Razors seem to stare and intimidate. Suffocating in her own self-pity and tears. Strangled in the accumulation of all fears. This is not a poem dedicated to self-destruction. Nor is it neither ad nor promotion. Lonesome is the devil that isnt afraid to provoke. The red glistening liquid appears within a stroke. Hide the dried crystalline lacerations. Most important, hide all emotions. Life somehow seems to drift away. Problems and arguments torment life each day. Gashes, dripping of blood arent a way out. Suicide only leaves the tortured soul in doubt. Kinfe with a blade, and it shines so iridescently. Its beauty and power holds some sort of simplicity. A black box of mistakes, feelings and thought. Life and after death leaves a soul tied into knots.

     So drown me in claret wine, and wrap me in silk divine. For I am lost and left for my funeral reception. This is how i leave; lies and deception. No red roses, family nor any friends. This is where it comes crashing down all to an end.