When we a write something with love or sadness or anger, any other emotion we feel, what we capture is a beautiful arrangement of words made up to rhyme and reflects the writers ardour, is a poem.
Fineness and depth within ones heart
At times fail t...
Sharp and deep it cut my veins, Its coolness still tingling my sense. It wasn't for you or your pain, Was for the control I had lost upon my life, Which I was longing to gain.
I still feel it gliding on my skin like ski. I still feel the fear in my heart when I see. The marks on my body, the scars to remind. Who I was and all the stories behind.
I failed them, those how believed there was more to me. Belittled them those who valued my life, but I couldn't see. All your fault, they say, but how could they know, The remembrance of my deeds forever craved for the world to show.
I wish I had sliced deeper, Much more to the depth, It would hurt less, yes. And it would have been worth the rest.
I feared dying and who wouldn't have, The knife was in front of me, shining its blade, it shouldn't have. The tempt wouldn't have been there to end it once, But the feel of silence had been buried, too deep to enhance.
I snapped up and threw it away, all I saw was red. Held my hand and cried for help but none came ahead. I knew I could give up now and lie in here forever. But the chance life gave me, I couldn't waste it. Even if I was too weak to live, the knife couldn't take it.
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