I pick a strand of grass
A slither of the green
I snap it in the middle
I cut it nice and clean
I spin in my universe
I return to my reverie
I can hear nothing
Except the cutting of my mind
I pick up a blade
Not as harmless this time
It cuts so easily
Wounds are appearing
I‘m crying busily
Dying physically
And again I pick up a blade
A slither of the red
It runs down the line
Then I hide in my own head
