Turn the lights off,
This kills me as much as it does you.
The knife beating down on your skin not so soft,
It's always confusion, never true.
You know the red always stains my wrist,
I'm in control, on top of the table.
You can't do anything, I have a retort to insist,
Get ahold of yourself, you're unstable.
It's not so hard to grasp,
The pain is unmistaken,
From my fingertips, can't you feel the wrath?
I have a way for my friends.
Shattering the unshattered,
In the end not a thing will matter.
Comments
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Wow. That's depressing, but then, I guess it's supposed to be, right? One thing I noticed -though maybe it's just me- is in the third stanza: line number 3 seems a little to long or something for the rest of the stanza, I think a shorter version would compliment the overall look of the poem. Also,I've always loved the word "wrath", and I'm glad you used it, it makes your message more powerful. This seems like it'd be a good poem in a contest of some sort, I think you'd do well, especially with the last two lines, they kinda leave an awkward silence in the air that poetry should have. I'll stop rambling now.
Cheers,
~Redd~
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