It's all just a blur, a haze of depression,
I have a problem, a little confession,
The marks on my arms are from a blade's touch,
They cut me and scar me but don't hurt me much,
I feel like i have to cry, to scream and to shout,
I can't keep it locked in anymore, got to let it out,
But it sounds so stupid, when i say to my friends,
The way i cut; cause i want to end my life,
A place i can hide away from darkness and find the light,
That everyone else seems to hold inside,
In their happy heart and smiling eyes,
But i hold no light inside of me,
Darkness and depression is all that i see,
Constantly worried that i will do it again,
I can see it in their faces, faces of friends,
They can see i have lost all control of myself,
My knife is blood stained as it lies on my shelf,
The marks of blood, the horrible stains,
That have been spilt from my raw, my now open veins,
You can barely see my wrist for all the scars,
The red ones, the long ones, the horrible marks,
I don't like to see them and neither do you,
They are a constant reminder of the things that i do,
The ways i have felt, written there to remember,
The diary on my wrist; dated the second of september.
*All comments and votes greatly appreciated as always*
