My hands cannot stop this torture,
I let them continue ruining my picture.
The crimson blood oozes out of my arm,
For I feel highly aroused by self harm
My windpipe cannot let me breath,
I suppose I must gather heath.
Why do I exist?
Do I just bring misery to all of the rest?
I hear the voices speaking from my head.
They'll stop speaking if I become stone dead.
Where's the hands of time?
Where's that chime?
Have I lost hearing?
I think I'm disappearing.
I suppose my heart is stopping as well
I have to say my farewell
...
(This poem is supposed to be me venting due to big amounts of stress I've been putting myself. I hope all of you are having a good day.)