Maybe if I slit my wrist, it'll help me to escape. Get away from this hell I'm living in, or at least block the pain. Cause when I cut, it clouds the memories, I don't think of the crap in my life. All I think of is my skin being ripped under the cold blade of the knife. When I bleed, I bleed blue. Blue is the only feeling I know. The sadness escapes through the tears on my face, but through the mask, they never show. If someone looked at me they could never tell the pain I face on my own. They think I'm happy and strong, but dear God, they'd be wrong. For me, life's meant to be spent alone. Or at least that's what I'm told. These voices whisper to my heart: "You have no place, no worth, you're a waste. You want to think you're a work of art? Well you're not, so stop the lies. Don't try to trick yourself. No one will come to rescue you, no matter how long you cry for help. Go seek solace from a bottle, or a pill, or a lover. Whatever helps you to escape. But you and I both know those things don't give you hope. What's the point of living past today?" These voices turn from whispers to screams, they grow more anxious by the day. Then I hear a new voice from above all the noise, saying "Dear child, throw those away. Those voices that try to hurt you, and tell you that you're worthless. Don't listen to them, because I'll tell you the truth: I designed you with a purpose. You are more than the mistakes you've made, the ones that say you have no worth. Lift up your face, and let the flood of my grace wash away all your dirt. Depression has no hold now. I have broken your chains of shame. You're a child of the King now. This, dear one, is your new name."