Self-Harm Poetry

1814 poems on self-injury.net

Displaying 1451 - 1460 of 1814

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dancing blood stars, painted skin.
the snap.
razor tears like piranha devouring
the mask.

lead belly, pregnant with
lumps sliding downward.

sinking pellets of
crimson oceans

spectral phosphenes
dancing across fetid rotting
corpses of sentences i climb over

gears of anguish
undulations of was
and has and finished
amplified with
pauses and commas

the sand beneath my feet
sinks beneath my toes
sometimes it cannibalizes my psyche

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Alone
Surrounded by a swarm of insects they call people
They wish to feast upon me
Why?
What is it about me?
Why am I chosen to be the prey?
I’m exhausted.
From running.
From hiding.
From being chased my whole life
Maybe I should give up
Let them devour me
It’s what they want
Me to conform to their ways
Their language
Their look
But I won’t
Even the people who claim to be different are all the same now
So vain.
Such vain little creatures
I curse you

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These scars I bear upon my skin
show more than just my pain.
They show the battles I have fought;
the battles I have won.
These war wounds last to prove
I’ve faced the worst and lived.
They show me that the past is real.
They show me what I’m worth.
Strength is their strongest message
And courage is there too.
These scars remind me that
I have faced Death himself and defied his wish.
The skin and flesh may be broken
But the spirit remains unharmed.
Though everyday I take that bladde

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Why all the hate?
Where does it come from?
Just look at the kid. Take a long glare
You couldn’t even give him another
He doesn’t deserve all this
He doesn’t
He doesn’t
He’s just sad, he cried
So sad. So sullen.
So angry at people, especially you
A combo of sophistication, desires, sudden deaths
What else can you do?
People put their selfish, grotesque arms up and say:
Stop, go
Get lost, get over this.
You continue to torture him
You go on and burn him, slash him, scratch him
Look at his arms,
A slice, a dice, the permanence it’s achieved
It’s all your deeds, your deeds your doings
Why hurt him? Made him a masochist
Full of thirst for your uncompromising judgments
He screams, he shrieks
Never submitting but yearned for the pain
You stuff him pills, shoving him handfuls
When does it end. Suspended forever?
Diminished
Never
Those things. They sink down, down so low
They come up, up to grab your head and shake it hard
The world flattens, you flail
Those things. They never disappoint. Miraculous.
Shut up. Shut up. Shut the fuck up
Stop the mourning
Mourn for all your got? All you own?

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I am girl.
I am woman.

I am blonde.
I am brunette.

I have so many faces.
I have no face at all.

I live.
I bleed.

I die.
I whither.

I feel.
I ignore.

No one sees the real me.
I don’t see the real me.

Will I find her?
Is she inside me?

I can’t tell.
No one can tell.

Is she for real?
Is she make believe?

Until I find her I am many.
Until I find her I am none.

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silver glints in the light
a tormenting wink

reveals slowly a
red cotton thread

follow the line
let its river guide

drip … drip
tick … tock

crawling closer
even Christ would cringe

stumble past
a hundred stones
each the purest of white

Kiss the sand
Let the salt sting
vision blured

a collage of colour
red into white
then shadows fall

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I feel it seep,
blindly now

unseen, but not unfelt

I watch a thin trail
begin to appear

trace the pain
with my fingertips

pull back slowly
make way
for this army of scarlet

but what am I
to lead
these soldiers

fall back
carry me
on a thousand shoulders

Paint me red

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While you’re chewing my soul I can’t stop but smiling,
cos’ You’re salt water in Sahara,
You’re a window in Hell.
You only bring more pain
with a breeze of fake joy .

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I hold the blade to my brow,
tapping it in thought and thinking of the irony of it all.
How did it come to pass,
that we should meet here now?
Between yesterday and tomorrow,
the hours we met so many times before.

You think I’m crazy,
you whisper it over and over again.
Your hands are tucked under your chin,
they had been since you saw me.
You said you didn’t know who I was,
because I was a child when you saw me last.

Truth be told, this is progress.
Last week I didn’t know who I was anymore.
People kept talking about me as though I was already dead.
I had the blade turned towards myself.
I was feverishly looking for some sign of life.
I was looking for some hint of humanity.

Because that night it was me and a knife,
I was trying to save me from myself,
because no one was able to get through.
Now I look in the palm of my hand,
and see I have the control now.
“So what shall we do tonight?”

The other day I came across a picture of me,
the way I was once upon a time.
I was smiling and holding a bunch of flowers.
No one would recognize her anymore,
I know her as a stranger on the street.
I know her as the screaming in my head.

You should have been sent to prison for murder,
it was

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There are two roads: one of Fear, the other of Love.

Fear: that feeling, like prickly heat,
That suffuses one’s face,
Bubbling up from a well in one’s navel,
Seemingly inexorable.
Nameless and invisible, but well known to the body
Who has an intimate acquaintance with what it has wrought.

Displaying 1451 - 1460 of 1814