Okay. Before I even post this poem, I am going to tell a little about it. This was also written in seventh grade. It was written for a friend of mine. He, well, he cut himself. Not a lot, only a couple times, but it was still enough to make me cry and worry. When I wrote this poem, I only shared it with my other friend, afraid that Jon, my friend who cut, would be mad. Then I finally decided to come out and show him the poem. When he read it, he laughed and threw it away. So I talked to my teacher and the matter was dealt with. Here it is.

No one knows
The way I feel,
Unless your friend
Has cut.

It feels like
Falling into a dark abyss
Observing life
From the inside out.

Wondering why he did it.
He said it was because
He didn't feel loved.
I told him that was bull.

It hurt me,
That he didn't bother to tell me,
Any of this.

I cryed
But he then laughed,
And said that it was okay.
He wouldn't cut again.
How was I supposed to beleive that?

As I walk the boulevard,
I can just imagine it...
They found him lying dead,
In his room with blood on the floor,
A mirror broken, shards wedged in the door,
His wrist, it was slashed.
Deep.

This thought scares me
He is my dear friend
I've known him for years.
And in those years,
He never gave a clue...
I don't read minds,
How was I supposed to know?
Am I the one to blame?

On starry nights,
I am crying
Wishing I could make it stop somehow.
Cold hands and feet
Are the result of writing on late snowy nights.

Now I wish he hadn't told me,
What he was keeping inside.
The bloody wrist,
An image that won't go away.
I should have known,
I wish I had.

You may call it brave.
You may call it stupid.
You may call it love lorn.
Or you may say he was mearly
Looking for attention.

I don't care what you say.
He was dear to me,
Like a brother.

I can't accept
What he's done to his life.
Just wanting control of his life...
But he didn't have to do it that way...
His voice is nothing
But an empty void
That can never be filled.

It's like a keilidesope
Yeah, I'll give him that
His life may have been hard to cope.
Next he will do drugs
Or steroids.

My only wish
Is that he is happy
With what he has done with his life.
And I can't thank him enough
For everything he has done for me.
For he is my friend,
Like a brother.

This poem, I know, is a little choppy, and doesn't flow nice. But to be honest. I could have given a rat's behind if the poem flowed or not. I just wanted to convay the message. So comment, critique, whatever. Just please read it. Cutting is a serious issue and I want you all to know, that it will not only effect you, but everyone around you. If you hurt yourself, you are hurting the people you care about you the most.