Crimson blood
Trickling down my pale arm like a
Small waterfall flows into a sparkling stream:
A feeling so great, it's peculiar that one could possess such an enotion.

This is my extinguisher to the fire that
boils inside, burning and ebbing away at what's left of my soul.
Break the skin,
hope to pop a blood vessel:
A one way ticket to the hustle and bustle of the place we call Hell.

Deeper and deeper with each slice.
Will I ever stop?
When will enough be enough?
Impotence to the sting,
I must go farther,
to greater heights when crafting this delicate art.

Oh, how great this is.
Never. Never will I stop.
I was always told that violence wasn't the answer,
but this pain, oh, it feels amazing.
I need it.
This is my stress relief that nobody would understand
if my bloody, cotton sleeves were to ever be rolled up.

My enemy is inside me,
dying to release itself,
and with every cut,
I feed the monster as it bites the only hand that feed.
This is my true artist coming from within.