A/N: This is a poem about cutting. Do not turn to self-destruction. If you do, then the others will win. Don't allow them to win.
I pick up this knife
To avert the strife.
I press the cold blade against my skin,
And in my head and heart I hear the din
Caused by all the terrible pain
I have to go through in the rain
And in the sun, every single day
And night, no matter which way
Ah, the pain, trickling out with the blood;
The hurt, the anguish, escaping me in a flood...
This wretchedness of mind, gone...
Only to return, doubled in pain,
And causing many a tear to leave its stain
On my pale and wasted cheek.
Death, it is you I seek;
Give me that cold blade,
Ah, I can still feel the exquisite pain it made.
Verily, this is exquisite pain,
Feeling the blood drip out of my vein
And flow down my arm;
This knife holds such a lot of charm
For me. Alas, ah, no! It's all fake!
I'm doing this all for death's sake!
No; it's a false hope-it's all a lie!
Knife, get away from me, oh fie!
It is a diabolical spiral of betrayal
Which results in my withdrawal
From the world of the living
In which I am constantly striving;
And yet-I just can't give up!
I won't let the others win,
I won't let the knife win:
Knife, go to hell-
Fare you well!