A Game
I'm fooling myself in this game called life,
so I go to pick up a knife.
Why does being happy have to hurt?
While I'm trapped inside this prison of pain,
my eyes slowly begin to rain.
Who will come save me before it's too late?
I feel the metal freeing my skin,
though the metal is a piece of tin.
Why is no one here to help?
I feel the blood drip from my thigh to the floor.
I cry while I lie down on all four.
Does anyone even care that I am ripped open?
In the morning, my mother calls my name.
Well, to me, this was no game.
I'm sorry, I'm already gone.
This poem is about:
Me
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