The hard thoughts come,
and the knife craves flesh,
none other than my own,
like some dark obsession.
Peculiar comfort, in blood.
Creating scars on myself,
then making them bigger.
A demon I call this thing,
this addiction to cuts,
to the pain and suffering.
A sick pride in the marks,
and where they came from,
my sanity bounces wildly.
Or was there any to begin?
The allure still remains.
A battle constantly raging,
I’ve fought this beast before,
and failed to destroy him.
Will I fare better in this bout?
No choice but to hope.
Hope for a victory, a win,
a final defeat of my foe,
but is my hope delusion?
Or can I win this fight?
I fear only time will tell.
Poetry
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The poem, though dark, is inherently hopeful. There’s an aspect of the narrator that caters to the goodness of life.
There’s always truth in the battle. And the only truth to adhere to is the one disciplined in happiness. Never quit.
Take care!
Michelle
Thank you for the lovely feedback! I have been feeling much more hopeful lately! Best wishes!
I like it. Makes me think.