Arm Flesh by Michael
Arm Flesh
Alone, Confined to the dark depths of satanic
Torment and depression
Life has driven me to this, this attack on my inner self, an unbelievable revulsion for
My being
No matter how deep my run the blade down my arm, a balance of pain can’t be accomplished, I gash, slice and sever; I hate myself, as my blood runs
From my arms and the tears stream from my eyes, the voices scream out like a terminal plague infesting my head.
I persecute and abuse with the blade, self inflicting wounds, I cut deep, I cry hard, I will
Bare the scars all my life.
I am, emotionally weak.
Not good enough, didn’t fit in, a social outcast, unloved, hated, different.
A freak
I have nothing going for me I am a failure, worthless bound for all of what’s left,
That of which I choose to live of my life as a insignificant morsel of humanitarian existence.
No one to turn to, no one to love me no one to hold and comfort me, just someone
There to kick and abuse me, to bring me down to the depths of emotional torture and
Self imposed harm.
I often contemplate on the act of total extinction of myself by my own hand.
I could look death in the face, feel no pain, and embrace its icy touch.
Next time there will be no turning back.
No second thoughts no one or nothing will prevent the inevitable, death flows through my veins with every beat of my heart.
Liberation from this hellish Earth, and the relentless harassing creatures that thrive on it
Next time I will cut myself for the last times; leaving deep blood thriving cuts on my wrists run my arms under water, get weak, collapse.
And give my last dying gestures as I stick my fingers up to the world.
Maybe then I can but my blooded emotions to rest, along with myself.
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