Poetry of the struggles in life

Old Scars

He looks upon his wrist,

Counting the stories that no other will ever read.

Sometimes he misses the knifes kiss.

But, now he can't stand the thought of watching himself bleed.

Times have changed since he first felt the sting of the blade.

It seems like forever since he has felt the hate.

But today there's an anger that is swallowing him whole.

He closes his eyes, trying to let it go.

But, its no hope, its no use.

He tries to dismiss the thoughts of the noose.

Suicide, depression, is it not all the same?

Someone, somewhere is playing the Russian Roulette game.

There's too many people praying for death.

While there's others who wish they had one more hour left.