Blood stain on my brain

Here I sit think why is it like this.

Every day I grow more and more detached, 

I feel as tho this is not real I wish that I could just fly away, every day.

Home no longer feels close, it almost feels like a hole.

Deeper and darker as you go.

I think to myself, if only there were a way out.

I feel like I found a way by cutting and tearing myself away.

I feel stuck, wish I had someone to help.

I left everyone behind as I decided to die.

I finally feel a way out.

That night I took my hand grabbed a blade and sliced away.

 

This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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