August 12, 2010
The marks of the blade;
Traintracks running up my arms.
Never do they sting.

During confused times
I rely on makeshift tools.
Desperate to break through.

Pain comes afterward,
Brought on by agitation.
Still the blood runs blind.

Will I feel the guilt?
Will the rush amount to pain?
For now, still I carve.

Carving through the f l e s h ,
The red [ satin ] stains the silk.
Stitches cannot mend.

Pain is none but joy,
Warm pleasure at its finest
Tingling my skin.

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Annmarie11_12_13 said...
Sept. 1, 2011 at 8:26 pm
this is deep and so accurate.  Sometimes pain can be the best inspiration.
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