Care*

F**K this that is my life,
everyone but me oblivious to this knife,

sometimes I just want to F**King die,
instead of living this hateful lie.

I wounder if I die would anyone actually care,
because death right now would be better then a life I can't bare.

There "slips" the knife into my tattered arm,
this makes me feel better to do this harm.

the knife move across my arm in its mysterious and majestic ways,
as I look down at the floor where my body lays.

I lay myself down as I felt the energy being sucked out of me,
now floating upward I look down and what do I see?

My lifeless body laying there,
and no one knows, but even if they did, would they really care?

I made this poem when I was really sad and thought it would be better for me to write out my feeling instead of acting upon them. I hope you like it and I would appreciate all votes and comments, they all help a bunch. Thanks!