They laugh and joke like It's all a game,
Because they've never known that type of pain.
The type with tears, blood, and razors,
With slit wrists and home made tazors.
The self infliceted pain that makes you smile,
The temporary happiness that lasts a short while.
They beg and plead for the fake slit wrist,
If only they knew how messed up it really is.
To cry yourself into a fit of breathlessness,
And fail every one of lifes simple tests.
To be hurt and burned and scared and torn,
To have a heart that is beaten and worn.
Their laughter and jokes cut to the bone,
Because they make fun of everything you've known.
The lies, the hurt, the blood, the pain,
They look at it like it's all a game.
But I'm sorry kids a game it's really not,
Not when a blade is the only vice you've got.