• Small and infinitesimal
    Never seems to mean a lot
    And yet, it means so much
    more than it is ever given
    credit for.
    What about these rivers
    as they run down pale limbs?
    Cold, lifeless, and unfeeling
    Scarlet, (or are they Crimson?)
    rivers run their course
    until they either dry up
    or they drip onto the
    dark and dry wood floor
    below, where it either dries
    upon the surface,
    or is greedily absorbed and
    soaked into the floor.
    The crimson rivers, which
    give warmth, life, to the
    cold, unfeeling, and sickly
    limbs, quickly fades,
    leaving that same cold feeling
    which always seems to come back all
    the stronger, making
    the abysmal dark
    surrounding me
    seem to grow closer
    around me, choking
    the life out of me, like
    a thief in the dark,
    stealing the life and
    happiness from me.
    I truly feel alone
    now, even as this blade
    sinks into my skin again,
    the cycle starting over
    again, and, I realize
    that, it is inescapable.
    For me to try to escape
    would be like, for me to
    try to escape death, something
    I know…is attributed to
    the fool.
    And yet, I try
    again and again, to escape
    the pain, the very cycle
    that makes me aware of
    my own existence, my own
    life.
    If I were to try
    to leave the cycle, would
    I become crazy, unaware
    of the reality around me?
    Who’s to say, but, would I
    become happier?
    I doubt it.
    I don’t believe it, because,
    once you’ve been driven to
    the very brink, driven to insanity
    and plunged deep into the dark waters
    of the abyss, into the darkest
    depths, there’s no way to leave
    unscathed.
    Even if you crawl
    your way out, that kind of
    madness stays with you, making
    you more aware of the very sheer
    reality that can befall any one man.
    So the blade sinks in again,
    and I give into it,
    the reality of it etched
    upon my skin,
    forever.