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.
