Running with scissors,
Is so very grand.
It can put one’s eyball
In another one’s hand.
A small, clumsy trip
And it sticks right through.
Running with scissors
Is like being with you.

Running with scissors
Is not very smart
But I do it anyway
Because it is a lost art
To run with an object
So dangerous, yet appealing,
Is almost like making sure
You’re still feeling

Every cut, every graze,
Received by the flesh
Is a permanent mark
To make the sadness less.
A visible scar
To dull the pain
Of an emotional one
That hurts all the same

Runing with scissors
Is not very smart.
Trip and fall
And it will cut out your heart.
And there I stand weeping,
With my heart on the floor.
A coldness runs through me
Until you open the door.

And when you smile
It can all go away.
My heart creeps toward you
Saying ‘Please stay.’
Yet again you leave me
With my heart on the floor.
The weeping returns
As you shut the door.
Running with scissors
Is so very grand.
It can put one’s heart
In another one’s hand.
A small, clumsy slip
And it sticks right through.
Running with scissors
Is like being with you.