Sitting in my room.
Thinking about life.
I’ve made it to a completely rubbish
There’s no way to survive.
When I look to my arm I see a scar.
Pick up a knife from my desk.
Happiness seems to be far.
Friends don’t like me.
Parents fighting.
Someone else, I want to be.
I make a cut into my arm.
Blood lay on my bed.
I get it warm.
When I make another one,
I feel great.
Just well done.
But when I started to think.
I know that I was cutting my sorrow away.
Now I feel the pain in my arm, fingers and pink.
I pick up the knife.
Stab it in my arm.
Only to get the sorrow out of my life.