Quiet Pain
I cut deep within my veins
Treating myself to the quiet pain,
Digging inside to cut the hurt out
And feeling the blood begin to sprout.
It feels good trickling down my wrist,
Makes me feel like I no longer exist.
I can shrink away into my own quiet place,
Where I'm not just another shattered face.
All I need is a butchering knife,
And I can escape from my life,
Letting the hurt come outside
Rather than keeping it hidden inside.
The scars serve as a pleasant reminder
Of a world that was much kinder
Than all the pain that I'm used to.
It is my only path through.
It's something that I cannot explain:
My appreciation for the quiet pain.
It is my only escape route.
Through it, my misery pours out.
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jwiener
This is such a sad poem, and very intense, made more so by the imagery of the "knife" and the words "trickling down my wrist." Taken literally this could be about someone inflicting pain on themselves, but the "knife" could also be a pen and the "trickling" could be the words coming out of the pen. This is a very deep poem- nice use of emotions.