Sorrowful bliss,
That of which we inflict,
The tears we cry,
Wishing to die.
We walk alone,
Depressed or numb,
Trying to fight a fight,
That we've already lost.
"Not again."
"I won't do it again." We say.
But little do you know,
We'll just relapse anyway.
Labeled as attention seekers,
Or just trying to fit in,
We feel out of place,
And that is living is a sin.
The words we've heard,
The name's we have been called,
Tear us apart,
Part by part.
Trails of Crimson,
Paint our only friend,
The blade in our hand,
Wishing to feel okay again.
The years we've suffered,
The struggles we've gone through,
We'll never forget,
What people put us through.
Sure we harm,
But not for attention,
We feel our existence,
Isn't even appreciated.
We say we're fine,
But we have harm on the mind,
We keep our pain on the inside,
And smile as you walk by.
Look at our wrists,
Look at our thighs,
100's of cuts mark our bodies,
As our soul subsides.
You'll find notebooks of notes,
All rewritten to perfection,
The perfect goodbye,
To our suicide,
The release of all our tension.
