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

I take.


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!