Mutilated

 

This is why....

     People cut. 

  Exactly this. 

The feeling of inability to rip out 

    of your own skin. 

  The demonic chords 

Clamping in, 

  At every wane, tide, pull and push of the Moon. 

  The astral bodies a matrix 

To our own demands- 

  Evolution, a messy and timed spiral, 

With hardly a tell-tale of up from down. 

  Our matter is always pushed. 

Always waned and rained upon. 

 "Life is Suffering",

The most enlightened of our kind say. 

  What does that say about us? 

It does no registering. 

  Gut, an invoice machine ticking so fast, 

What human could keep up? 

  This is why...

People cut.  

  This is the time-ticking bomb 

Before Nuclear Expanse. 

  Sitting in us. 

Any moment, ready to go off. 

  and right before that moment, 

Occurs an implosion. 

  Perhaps even many. 

It is almost the need to escape. 

  Cut life short before the moment comes. 

Check out, of a contract, 

  You put your signature on. 

The feeling of impending doom, 

  and the need to get out of it...

Before the Boom. 

    Apathy dances her sadness, 

A blazing tumbleweed at my core

a rumble and bumble of flame dance 

 Weaving into Anxiety's sunset Aura. 

 Delicately fumbled along, the energies too

Wane and shape the shift she moves. 

  We cut...

To know we are bleeding. 

  Psychologically Primal. 

Like checking to make sure we are still human. 

Not a sense in it at all. 

  We cut, 

To feel something. 

  Something tangible and other than 

The chaos soaking in our anatomy. 

  To distract us. 

To over-ride 

  One kind of pain 

 For the other. 

  We cut, 

Because we shudder, 

  In our skin at times. 

Like being trapped forever 

  In Mirror Land. 

 Can not graze the outer world. 

Can not be touched by it. 

  'Cept for pain.

  We cut 

When it is perceived 

There is no other way out. 

  We cut, 

To feel. 

  When the apathy parched up Motivation. 

When it.... scares us... 

  To care so little. 

Like a 

  "Wake up!!!" 

We cut. 

  Thinking if maybe, to be able, 

To get out of this skin! 

  A save switch. 

    A sounded alarm. 

As if out of body...

  When the razor finds the arm. 

Mitigated instead...

  Healthier than impulsive points...

  This is why...

People like me...

  This is why 

  We write. 

  We bleed to see and steal the pain. 

To core and hollow it out. 

  Chosen instead 

My paper cut 

  

  Sitting in her skin. 

To ruminate within 

  And write it without 

Instead of keep 

     It in. 

Rather than bleed it out.