Heart racing, thoughts unclear.

It's midnight.

Looking down, a piece of metal.

A thin blade.

One touch to the skin it relieves all the pains of yesterday.

Taken to thought, what one person said,

"The paper is your canvas, the pen your brush. Write down your fears, pains, and worries. It's the one person who will listen."

Grabbing the razor, my heart needing to bleed.

Glancing over to the desk, a piece of paper lies, waiting to listen.

Holding the razor tight in my palm, I sit at the desk.

"I will listen," the paper said.

"Your skin isn't worth the scars," the pen muttered.

Throwing the razor down I grabbed the pen.

My hand screaming with all my burdens rushing out through the point.

The paper accepts it all.

Minutes turn to hours.

Finally my head is clear.

The paper carries all my burdens now.

It says to me,"Let the scars heal, use me instead."

There is no more blood shed.

Poetry is my razor.