Razorblade's & Romance
I trip, slip as the blade grips -
caressing my skin slowly,
sliding only for a moment.
It cries from my wounded heart
as blood dries from my eyes...
Back in black scabs pick at me,
yet I stick to skin like hair on heads;
especially the stray grey ones...
My eye's pack their bags -
hoping for the weather to clear.
She tastes the haste in my mood;
wanting more of what has been -
but no more of this has been...
- Jonathon