Enter the dark and dreary poem about suicide because of mean people. Ah yes, I am such a happy writer aren't I? Bah, whatever. Moving on: please read, please review, because you do know that you want to! Ahem, yeah.

She fell down to me like a crumbled paper crane,
White and red grace staining her pale hands.
The beginning of the end would start with pain,
And I watched her fall down unto the endless lands.

Her glazed eyes a riddled shade of endless grey,
Pale skin ripped in more than one jagged shred,
And in her long, long hair, a single drop lay -
Strawberry wheat stained red.

She saw it last - a torn and bitter reminder,
One so cold that it'd soon leave dark nicks,
Thinking, if only they had been just a bit kinder,
Then she wouldn't be riding on the dead river Styx.

Her limp palm I hold in my tender grip,
The pale corpse unmoving and clearly dead.
The story ending like her hair, with one last drip -
Strawberry wheat stained red.