Sounds shall not escape,
They shall not burst out
Of this chamber of echoes,
This shadowy chasm of bone.
So many voices crowding,
With cunning they resound,
Crushing the memories and
Confusing them with reality.
“Do it! Do it! Damn it!”
Screams a disembodied voice.
Or was it disembodied?
The voice dwells deep inside.
“Do it! Do it! Fuckin’ do it!”
The voice reverberates on,
Followed by a sobbing cry
And a low maniacal laugh.
Scarlet riverbeds are carved
By another razor blade symphony
“Like virginal sex,” the voice hissed,
“It’s awkward and messy.”
What is wrong with me?
“Do it again…and again…
“It always gets better!”
The voices mock my sanity.
I want to stop…to stop…
I want them all to fucking stop.
I want to be free of this asylum,
Of this entombed, bony abyss.
Haunted for what seems
An eternity of utter madness,
“There is no escape…no escape.”
The demons keep telling me.
Ra
zo
rb
la
de Symp
ho
ny
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Author:
Tristan Robert Lange (
Offline) - Published: August 21st, 2017 23:14
- Comment from author about the poem: This is dedicated to those who struggle with cutting. I have known people who struggle with this...how they want to stop, but find themselves returning the razorblade to their flesh. I pray that such people may find healthier ways, such as writing poetry utilizng a pencil and paper (or thumbs and a smartphone). Anyway, this poem was written years ago as I was reflecting on cutting and self-harm. My prayers go out to anyone struggling with this. You are not alone. Please get the help you need.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 29
Offline)
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