I fear that I am
soon nearing the end
in a place where I should
never have to pretend.
It's emptiness come where
there's happiness lost,
and from trying to please
I am feeling the cost.

It's a slow, deep breath in
and a labored one out
holding silence together
where there should be a shout;
a signal to say
that the pain's ripping through--
even if there was, there'd be nothing to do
but to sit by and observe
my God given fate
my emotions dissolve,
and health disintegrate.

So I sit and I stare
at the cuts on my wrist
wondering how long it took
just to come down to this.
Now my being is filled
with an empty black space,
a well practiced smile
grows large on my face.

So I fear that I am
soon reaching the end
in a place where I know nothing
but how to pretend.