The Cutters

The cutters are plagued by the words that they hear
The closest of kin shouting hatred and fear
The cutters will see only shreds at their veins
They chop as they try to cut out their pain

The blood that does fall in attempts to be healed
Pooling in lakes as a mote and a shield
The false sense of comfort they bring to themselves
Feeling forgotten, alone where they dwell

The sting of the blade as it curses the wrist,
The arm or the leg, as the blood turns to mist
The ache of the scab that is longing to mend
The heart that does ache, is in need of a friend

The throb and the twinge are a fateful display
I’d trade them my joy for all of their pain
As I am to dust and a seed to a tree
The past will not constitute what they could be

A rock will not float, but will sink in the sand
A bottomless ocean will drown every man
The blood and debris will drift down with the wind
An earthquake or storm will take out every trend

The razor will dull as the hurting will fade
A hand that is held will replace the old blade
I pray a change comes before it’s too late
Dying too young is not anyone’s fate

Paint every wall of your room with your words
Replace all the blood and the guts that disturb
I hear your cries, my attention you have
I lead the blind, yet the beggars still grab

I know that path, overgrown with your scars
I left them first; they are gone from my arms
Lost in a forest, cold and alone
My friend, build a fire and call it a home

Rest, little one, breathe in peace and now dream
Defeat all the demons, much smaller now seen
Tear off their horns, make them beg and then plead
Dismember their evil as they’re on their knees

If you hear a voice telling you that you’re flawed
Confront it head on and rip out its jaw
The darkest of nights will give way for the day
A light to the cutters, give them this, my Lord, I pray

You are not empty, alone or too scarred
You are not lost or forgotten or marred
You are not wounded, disfigured or stained
You are not soiled, or ruined or lame

I know your name and I feel every cut
There is a hand when no one picks you up
The cutters feel pain when they feel there’s no hope
So, give me your arms and I’ll give you my coat