Scream,
so nobody can sense that you’re dying.
Just scream,
so nobody can see that you’re crying.
Scream inside your head,
or out loud,
into the sheets upon your bed.
Soon enough you could be dead,
because your hands shake,
and you grab the knife from the floor.
Your knees continue to ache,
and getting up is always the hardest.

Hell, you were never an artist.
But while you’re down, you draw line after line,
draw an horrifying art that hurts less every time.

Look what’s happened to your arm;
another poor victim of your own self-harm.
It goes on the list that stretches to the floor,
next to your scarred ankles and past your cut-up hips.
You never see this list when you ask the knife for more,
maybe its from the teary eyes that come when your emotions dip.

But this pain washes out with blood,
and it’s swallowed in a shot.
It’s sometimes burning on a cigar you never bought.

All these things to keep the pain away,
helping you escape when your depression comes to play.

This process always hurts, and it could come any other day.
You beg and cry to live any other way.
You’re a snake that swallowed it’s own tail because it couldn’t take its life,
and because it was too late to dodge the drink and the god-forsaken knife.
Too late to stop worshipping a lighter’s spark,
Too late to purify its inner voids
or britghten up the dark.

There’s smoke in your lungs,
Blood has dripped onto the floor,
The beer cans are all crushed up,
There’s one knife, and one closed door.