My Vicious Cycle

The sound of the knife, calling my name,
it's too hard to ignore, I can't play this game.
I put it in the cupboard; I tried to leave it there,
But all of this pain is too much for me to bear.
I grab a chair and I reach up high,
I grab the blade and I begin to cry.
I know what's coming; I know what I'm about to do,
I look down and I can see the skin that I've already cut through.
Why is this turning into a routine?
Why aren't I like one of the "normal" teens?
All of my problems are circulating in my head,
Everything is reminding me of this time last night when I bled.
I slide the blade across my arm,
I'm hoping no one comes in and raises the alarm.
The unfinished poems, the suicide notes,
The things that surround me, the famous quotes.
The things I've written, the things I refer to,
The things that I read when I have nothing to do.
They get me through when things are this tough,
I refer back to them when I've had enough.
It's been about half an hour and I\'m putting the blade away,
but I know it'll be out by the next day.