"Why is it worth it anymore?"
I ask myself as my words turn into dust in my pillow.
I let out a silent cry,
"Has all this fighiting been for nothing?"
Friends? Where are you?
Family? I thought you loved me?
Depression sinks in deeper and deeper,
pumping in my chest,
growing as algae,
tearing my soul, the little that is left,
limb by limb.
It is the only hand reaching out to me,
saying the vast lie,
"I love you"
But who does?
The lie flows as hundreds of corpes in the river.
That is the question.
Why does no one portray what they say,
no one lead up to their word?
I go past like a leaf drifting off into a forbidden land.
Waiting to be found.
Waiting to be rescued.
What do you do when a simple knife,
is your only companion?
Taunting you, "Just pick me up. One more slit. Thats it, I promise."
What is "one" slit for you Mr. Knife?
A slit five miles deep and twelve miles long?
Sooner or later, everyone breaks their promises.
My wrist bleeds red,
leaking more and more.
How much blood can I bleed in a day?
Puddles do not compare to the amount of blood drawn from my skin.
This world so hatred and cold,
having an uneven balance of greed and love.
What is love?
Is it the feeling I face when I draw that knife across my skin?
or is it the feeling I come across when I see no one at the stands of my award ceremony?
How does it feel to have someone to pick you up when everything falls apart?
I wouldn't have the slighest idea,
I am just another leaf drifting off slowly, trying,
hoping there is someone out there hearing my cries.
It is like a scream,
that will never be heard,
even by the sharpest ears.
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