Young Writers Society

Where do the pictures come from?
The ones that paint my skull

When I look at a book
The pages tear out
Violently
The wind breathes them in
And the thin white pages flap with futility
The ragged edges cut the air

When I look at a window
The glass shatters
There is broken glass, lots and lots of broken glass
And each shard is stained
Each tip painted with sticky red
It is blood, my blood

When I look at a tree
An invisible knife slices through the bark
It carves a face
And the tree cries
Trees crying waxy red drops
Everywhere

I close my eyes but I can still see
Everything
Everything crawls inside me
Thoughts bleed inside me head
Always red, deep dark red