Cutting

I know you don't get it,
It's hard to explain..
Control over life's
Sauntering paths
Thats why we do it..
Opening and healing,
Wounding again..
Scars so deep,
Joy within.
Do I cut to feel
Or let the guilt escape?
Is occasional joy, real?
Or to mimic life, my fate?
Each scar tells a story
Of unrequited love and sins..
Some self inflicted guilt
A means to an end...
Underneath my clothing,
Lies a map of blood and tears..
Roads that lead to nowhere,
Depressed psychotic jeers..
Each day filled with rage...
Fear that falls
On the floor in drops of defeat,
It helps release me from
A cage that keeps me sick..
The irony is..
With each slice I make,
Am I closer to freedom,
Or death by mistake..




(Just as a side note:
I haven't harmed myself at all,
All my scars are almost two years old.. And
I don't break my promises <3 (: )