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Emo? I think notSo, because I have cuts on my wrists, arms, legs, hips and stomach, I am Emo.
Emo is for losers with nothing better to do
Emo is a fad that people follow because it's "cool" to cut yourself.
Emo is a label applied to everyone who self harms, whether they are or not
Emo is a derogatory term used by teenagers to make fun of cutters
Emo is a word belonging only to those who have no REAL reason to be sad.
I, my friend, am a cutter...
Being a cutter is feeling completely worthless.
Being a cutter is feeling like your heart has been ripped to bloody shreds, without it's constant beat ever ceasing.
Being a cutter is not wanting to get up in the morning because you feel like no one would give a fuck if you weren't there.
Being a cutter is not knowing where you get the strength to continue living.
Being a cutter is considering suicide as the only way things will ever get any better.
Being a cutter is wishing for a serious accident to land them in the hospital to see if anyone cares
Is My Heart Broken?I don't understand
Why my heart beats the way it does
When I see your smiling face.
As I move my fingers
across the keys,
The letters forming
as if on
My MaskSo many nights with the razor to my wrist
so many scars that turn and twist
showing the pain, hurt and deceit
each and every day, doomed to repeat
My facade has been built
I wear my mask, but with guilt
why is it so hard to break down and cry
it hurts too much, even to try
My true self hidden behind a wall
to climb, its much too tall
break it down slowly, chip it away
maybe I'll be free one day
when the eastern sun sinksi wonder if you would
change your mind
find it in your
to feel a little something
if you saw the words
you've pulled from
uncovered by your lips,
i find poems under my hands.
i write strophes and lines
imprinted on your skin
when i move my fingers away.
i have so much to
i could give you so much
but you slink like a
nightcrawler from light
to a comfortable recession,
we will talk again
and no stammered heart
will beat like birds
if our hands touch;
you will realise
that sooner than you have,
you could have
shared your self
with someone else
and been safe-
you would have been
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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