It's all numb
My scars are fresh;
Everything as usual,
Pierce and prickled all over
A voice has been howling for long
Similar to Plath as once said,
"Dying is an art,
Like everything else
I do it exceptionally well."
At the end,
It's all me; dark and empty
Every single day: creeping slowly
Just burn me when i die;
For i have endured a thousand mournings.
