Poem: a fresh scar

note: i dont do that bullshit anymore, just remenising about how it used to feel
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i often sit and wonder what makes me carry on,
through the hate,
through my cracked smiles,
fake emphasis on useless things,
i watch everyone glare at my scarred arms,
i know what people think,
sometimes i just sit and watch myself bleed,
a tear here and there helps me remember that i'm still alive,
i don't know what makes me carry on,
maybe it's the sunsets i love to watch,
it might be the hunger for a future,
everytime i sit on my own and wonder why i'm still here,
i tell myself, ' because you want to breathe',
but i'm not sure my midnight screams know what it is to feel,
or see, i've been blind, so very blind to the world around me,
crumbled on the inside, and still i drag myself on, through the thorns,
like a rag doll on a string, i feel as if i haven't started to breathe,
waiting for something great to hit me,
i often sit and wonder when that day will come,
and i wonder if i will amount to something usefull,
or am i just collecting dust.