CUT ON THE FINGER * The warmth of my cold hands against the clean cold window and my wanting to lump bone, throw with swing likeness to rock tied to old stiff rope, through without harm this glass, shatter and split not breaking skin,"i will leave it now". ** A cut on my finger on the tip of knuckle between broken lines in the skin, it lay open a sliced pillow, it lay open an eye and exposed to the outside, blood flourished from within my still hand and rests on the cold. It ran down one raindrop on a long clear window, ran one drop of warm honey, until it sat on my nail it was a shiny pearl, no wanting from anyone, lips to hold it still and tongue to taste then clean up. *** It doesn't hurt it's only a small cut on the finger and after all it won't bleed forever it will heal, skin!! I'll remember for next time when i use a sharp knife But i don't!! when feeling in control, thats when the blood can come from anywhere.
Reason for writing:
i had cut my finger last night
and lost for ideas i started to write
this poem
Birth sign: Aries
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