seas of pills, forests of ropes, fields of knives ,
and less and less grains of hopes.
a gust of wind forming waves of pills,
shaking and swinging the ropes responsible for many kills.
with a slit and a cut as traveling through the mud,
through the fields of knives you lose more and more blood.
you run so fast without a care,
your depression surrounds you every where.
you stop when you realize there's no way out,
every where you go, "suicide" is what they shout.
