Not for light readers, this poem portrays a character named Buttons and his cynical, colorful views on topics


1. Buttons

Your dark black hair with your cut wrists and eyes,

that were swollen all the time from you hiding your cry.

I came into your life as a container of your sorrow,

sticking needles into my body you robbed me of life's burrow.

The sweaty sweet scent that you carried with your pride,

my hand in yours truly, my torture and your cry.

Buttons was the name you called me when we spoke,

you told me all your problems of how you couldn't cope,

with shadows being cast over your dark and sunken eyes,

as your blood felt better to you if they dripped from wrists or thigh.

You said the pain helped you cope and that I was your friend,

until you got over me and got out of depression.

Do not mind me Ill just lie here,

under your bed as you sleep,

Buttons is waiting for you dear,

to get suicidal and reap.

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