burnt pages.

tired.

it's one in the morning and i can't seem to sleep,
the walls in my room know the secrets that i keep,
the voices in my head and razors that cut too deep,
but there's nothing i can do so i just sit here and weep.

it's two in the morning and i've run out of tears,
but the voices in my head are still screaming my fears,
i guess i'll lie still and suffer all their jeers,
that's all i've been doing for the past four years.

it's three in the morning and my head is in pain,
so i'll take some medication that helps keep me sane,
a few more than usual so i don't feel a thing,
dropping the empty bottle with a quiet bang. 

it's four in the morning and i'm finally numb
sitting on the floor with a bottle of rum,
i can't feel i thing, i'm physically done,
a nap sounds good, i think i'll take one.

it's five in the morning and i took my last breath,
the sound of silence lulling me till death,
the air has left my body, exiting my chest,
at least now i can finally rest.