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Poetry By: LizLew

I found this one too. I keep finding old poems. The date says that I had just turned 8 when I wrote this.
Twisted for an 8 year old, I know.

Submitted:Nov 11, 2011    Reads: 37    Comments: 9    Likes: 5   

I feel like a Scarecrow in the cruel world,
Alone and abused with violence and words.
The glint of a knife is calming in ways,
I could sit there slicing for hours, months, days.
You see that blood that rolls down my arm?
You see that red and ugly scar?
They're the only reminders that I actually survive,
Though of course I cannot say that I'm alive.
You see, you cannot be alive, just because your breathing,
There is a big difference, a very different meaning.
Alive is when you feel inside,
Survive is when you cannot feel and don't care enough to try.
One more motion and I'm done for the day,
Turn to the pills next, and then I say,
"Hopefully tonight will be my last,
Hopefully tonight I can rid of my past."
But of course, nothing is that easy,
For if it were, my heart would not be beating.
The rain would not fall on unwelcome ground,
When you are up, you would not fall down.
Feelings wouldn't be hard to control,
And black wouldn't be the colour of my soul.
Unfortunately, I awaken in the morning and curse to God,
Take me away, I wish to live not.
I'm only a Scarecrow in this cruel world,
Full of broken people that, like me, are only hurt.


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