Scarlet Frost

This is a poem I wrote last year and it helped me describe my feelings in words. This is not a self help poem. Please take notice that this poem may include some triggers for people who self harm.

I walk and wonder who I am

A silver shard clutched in my hand

Shadowed by a midnight sky

Far too lost to wonder why

Silhouettes of evergreens

Standing guard, protecting me

But nothing stops the things I feel

My suffering is far too real

I stop beneath a looming tree

The leaves are dead, the branches clean

I lean against the twisted oak

December has become my cloak

Small white crystals start to fall

I'm starting to forget it all

My emotions are a swirling storm

And now the teardrops start to form

Rivers flow with blue and green

Across my arm that seems to gleam

The moon sparkles on my skin

I clutch the razor and begin

Thoughts are racing in my head

The white beneath my feet turns red

Soon the ground becomes a net

And my heart holds not one regret

I lie still blanketed by snow

As the streams of crimson flow

My steady heartbeat starts to fade

Life beat me in unfair play

I feel no shame about my sin

And my lips form a saddened grin

All my troubles forever lost

As I sleep in scarlet frost

Author's Note

Thank you for reading my poetry! I love writing and I hope you've enjoyed!

Reviews

[Nolo Segundo]

Wow! You have an innate feel for words: 'life beat me in unfair play', and 'as I sleep in scarlet frost'. I could be envious, Hanna-- it took me 50 years past your age to start writing poetry I thought others might get something out of. I believe all creativity is a gift, a gift from God-- as is life itself. I also well understand depression: it is a hazard for sensitive introverts because we tend to turn our anger against ourselves. And that is what depression is made of: sadness and anger; if you can identify what or who you're angry about, the depression will lift. And if that fails, then try asking God for help--prayer has saved my a*s more than once. You and I can know each other only through our poems (which itself is something) so I must ask you to trust this old poet who learned the hard and terrible way that the soul is real, that suicide is self-murder and murder really pisses God off. You and I and everyone you know has existed before this life, and will exist after it, timeless, eternal--BUT THE NEXT WORLD WE GO TO depends on how we live, and leave this life.
So enjoy the pleasures of life, and endure its pain, knowing that both are transitory and meaningful. And if the old can give the young one more piece of advise, husband your gift, care for it, but don't let your ego get tied to it. THAT was the mistake I made for half a century-- and may God shine his face upon your always.