I lost count on how many times I said
"I will cut my wrist no more"
Yet as long as I'm living, I'm feeling dead.
I can't stop myself longing for the sore.
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The harder I try to reach for the light,
The deeper I sink down the abyss.
I often ask myself if it's worth the fight.
How I wish I could handle this with ease.
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A pen or a blade could kindle the flame.
Both are fire starters inside my freezing heart.
Melting the ice or crushing it's the same.
Either will eventually hurt my heart.
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Behind the words that I heartfully write,
Are bunch of emotions concealed and chained.
May this way set my stairways to the light,
Or atleast keep my longsleeves from being stained.