I'm a broken record, repeating the same old thing. 
I'm sorry, I'm sorry,
I'm not who you want me to be.
Sometimes I fantasize about my death,
The urge to dig a knife into my skin a drunken memory that I must reject.
My addiction to sadness is the only thing I feel,
My skin yearning for the blade,
My cheeks soaked with tears,
A grave carved with my name,
And yet no one seems to care.
I find comfort in the darkness,
It's as close as I can be,
Because I know that now it not the time,
For I am a coward,
And death is not yet for me.