It Could be a good thing (suicide)

I see the knives sitting on the counter. Right now nothing else matters. I pick up the knife and run the blade across my finger. Put my finger to my lips and taste the faintest wisp of danger. My mind is racing as if this were a test. Will I make it through this madness or give into death. Lost and lonely in my thoughts, searching for a reason not to ceil my fate. Wrapped in confusion, trying whole-heartedly not to give way. I lean against the wall and thrust the blade into my chest. Blood spews, pain intrudes, the welcoming of death. I fall to the floor staring at the crimson colored blood. I can feel the life leaving me so I close my eyes. I'll finally get to rest but to do this I had to die.

Rate my poem if you want, you can also read my other poem, "Unusual Addiction". I'm new so I appreciate anything you would like to say.