For these things I scribble are my way of expressing,
The things I'll never truly say.I am scared,
Scared of my own existence.And mundane things like fate and morals bore me,
My true capabilities are unknown.Could I pull the trigger?
Could I push down on that knife?Could I rip through my skin with that razor,
To see that scarlet so bright?There are things I don't understand,
But remember this.I know what it feels like,
To truly exist.