I pick up the pencil to start writing.
Writing my pointless feelings and how I want more of a better life. I would trade this fucked up mind of mine for a better one anyday.
Yes, there are people who have it worse. I know this. But it doesn't stop me from longing for a better life.
When I pick up that pencil I long for the blade.
Some say it's an addiction.
No.
It's something you can control.
I prefer the blade over suffering in my thoughts becoming more depressed.
Just the sweet feeling of the blade over my wrist.
Takes my thoughts away and into the sweet feeling of the blood.
It's pain you say?
No.
It's what keeps me going.
Perhaps just a bad habbit.
I have many.
I can promise many I will stop, but thats one promise that will always be broken.
That blade will always be a close friend.
It just has such a nice feel to it.
Sure when people see my scares, they will judge.
But they do not know my full story.
They know only what I choose to tell.
I'd rather be judged for my scares than the story they think they know.
It seems the more they get everything I get nothing.
You may think you know my story but you don't.
So that blade will always have a nice feel.
And the sight of the blood will always be amazingly familar..
