Hope clipped each wing but to fall hard upon the ground, Behind each door tears fall down without a sound. Another passageway soon to find it's place, An end to life that shadowed through distaste. A blade soon to be the most trustworthy friend, Never once denying or declining the pain soon to engulf. Each cut so desperately made though an artwork soon to create, Be it life or yet another play of fate? One turn left and two turns right made but all wrong, For every action seemed to be another bad one in high pitched song. Doused so deep within where tears but fall so sweet, Only to burn upon the floor as they meet. With each cut it sent a message, That none really cared for another's passage, And every single time ever sacrificed for everyone else, A waste it seemed to take it's place. Effortlessly the blade cut deeps within her skin, Finally the pain she feels everyday seems to win, Another heart and soul to the devils call, Time cannot even comprehend or measure the guilt or agony from them all. Within a home that once used to be, Feelings no longer linger as darkness be seen, From those whom life was once worshiped and their every step measured, But soon to delve far from those whom she once treasured. Yet the reality is as such that she cannot now hide, That support or encouragement were things not to find. Beneath each dream was no pushing force, No belief was there to alter one upon the right course. Everything ever done made no difference, As though within life there remained little indifference, To what was real and far from wrong, To the place wherein no one could belong. And now clutching to a blade seems to help some more, To remember nothing but welcome death to ones own door, And so shall it be..... Contemplating suicide.
