Wounded
A blade can only wound when those who wield it swing.
It's steel can only bite and cut when forced to thrust and sing.
A wound can heal, a wound can close.
A wound can break, a wound can flow.
My wounds were closed, healed and forgotten.
And now from words since then begotten.
They drip with a painful ring.
It's steel can only bite and cut when forced to thrust and sing.
A wound can heal, a wound can close.
A wound can break, a wound can flow.
My wounds were closed, healed and forgotten.
And now from words since then begotten.
They drip with a painful ring.
♠ ♠ ♠
I don't write poems very often, and I don't usually write poems that are so...depressing. I don't want this to seem like a plea for help or anything, although I suppose it is a minor reflection of my feelings (like poetry is supposed to be). But nothing to be worried over.