He dies a silent death, while the blood in the snow paints the story of his life.

Sliver pens,
Dancing like figures,
Or shadows,
In the dim light of a sunset,
Coursing across his skin,
He muttered cursed words,
Under his breath,
As a dragons roar,
Soft,
Yet cold,
Like Winter's night,
Or a cool breeze,
Blowing leaves from the trees,
Onto the ground,
The silver pens,
Soon turn red,
As the paint,
As called blood,
Flowed from his canvas,
His wrist,
The burning sensation,
The feeling,
Of being dead

He’s walking through the past,
Just trying to make it last,
He picks up the gun,
And hears it blast,
He wakes up,
The dream has ended,
Back to his world
Of nightmares everlasting,
Warmth of one hugging his skin,
Tighter with each breath,
He’s embraced with the kindness of another,
He doesn’t believe it to be real,
The kindness soon left him alone,
Forever he shall be cold,
Embraced by hatred and sadness,
Hurt by many,
And more to come,
Why won’t one stay,
Because that’s all he needs,
He picks up the gun,
And hears it blast,
He doesn’t wake up,
The nightmare has ended.
He takes his last breath.
And the sadness loosens
Withholding its embrace.
He’s free at last.

Behind a locked door.
Broken, and shattered.
Illusions unknown.
Scared, and battered.
He cuts his legs.
Cries in pain.
Nobody can see.
he's going insane.

Dark, alone, and saddened.
Bruised, battered, and cut.
Love, hope, and happiness.
All shattered to dust.
It's funny how when your dead.
People start listening.
Maybe I should go away.
Because I'm sick of this.