He's dead, I'm alive. I feel, he will come
He is only one to drop in at mine,
Alone and insane I'm waiting for him
And cutting his trail with a blade - just a whim.
I know he will come, he'll feel the sweet scent
Of blood running down the wrist - that's my end,
I know that, I feel, he must damn it come,
I can't bear this, I'm fully worn out.
The light scent of soil - he's standing behind
The door made of glass - so tired and white,
It's needless to knock, he enters the room
And leans on my back - I'm waiting for doom.
He looks down on me with scorn and contempt
While I'm trying hard to tear life's thread.
The Death heals the cuts and leaves the old flat.
"Sorry, I can't help. You breath but still dead".
Image source: tumblr
PS I do not support suicide and consider it as a flight from your reality. If you can't transform the reality - that's the reason to move ahead, not to cut your wrists. Don't flee.
