Every night, you lie there afflicted.
Your every distress progresses through your veins.
The synthetic happiness goes straight to your head.
The dreadful thoughts go straight to your wrists.
You limply carry yourself to your drawer, and draw out your razor.
Returning the favor, the razor draws out your blood.
The fluid rushes out of your wounds, and rolls down your arms.
The ground floods before you, and your vision turns to a blur.
You collapse, your body hitting the ground like a feather.
Your left hand limply holds the note you had prepared earlier.
As you lie there, the blood continues to spill.
Your troubles are seeping from the slices down your arms.
Your fading soul subconsciously smiles, it's all over.
Everything goes black, the world turns silent.
Your every thought is dead, and your physical form is no more.
No longer do you have a pulse.
Everything is now nothing.
You're finally free.
