We'll cut down the trees
In the chilliest of winter
And leave the spatters of
Blood on our jeans
Curling our hands
Into weak little fists
We'll strain to break
The reflections through
The eye of the world
We each had our story
Yearning for a voice
Now six feet under
Like a dead mockingbird
The razor is a tool
For self-inflicted harm
But humans are the epitome
Of one's self-inflicted pain
