I have Stonehall'd all. Stonehalled-all.

Dixie currently feels:

 Dead

 

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Blog Poem #2

 

"Scabs"

 

 

Whenever I was hyper active,

Enjoying the way I'm supposed to live,

I'd often remark on pointless things,

And smile on the joy that my randomness brings.

 

I once often remarked, my brain was gooey,

The sky was bluey, glue sticks were gluey,

My brain was so screwy, my Converse were shoey.

 

The best thing I ever said though:

"My scabs are chewy."

 

And that's not a lie.

I'd picked one from my knee and gave it a try.

It was crunchy at first, then soft inside,

The surface was squishy, all the blood had dried.

 

Scabs are only a barrier, a mask, if you will,

They cover the wounds and they will be clean, until...

 

Until I rip them off again,

I want to see what's under them.

The wound hasn't fully healed.

 

It's bleeding now, just like when I:

Drove the cold blades into myself,

Sliced off my flesh and cut out some trenches,

I start the war, I fight the war,

I make my own barracks, eat my own stew.

 

I raise my own weapon, but not to my enemy.

I raise it to myself, and bring it down fast.

Ah... Relief at last.

 

I've made this once happy poem into something I shouldn't.

Keeping myself happy, content, I knew that I couldn't.

 

My scabs are all gone now.

I've scraped them away, pow.

 

All that's there now are the remains of the mark,

The small red indents where my silver blades park.

 

Where they dance upon me,

Take their fill of my skin, see?

 

There's one there, one here, one just near my elbow,

One down in the middle, and this one here... Oh...

 

...Maybe I shouldn't show that one to you.