no one understands me,
they dont know how it makes me feel,
they always criticise me,
they make me feel like im not real,
some times i wonder why im here,
most days i wish i would just drop down dead,
and put everyone out of their miseery,
so i lie here on my bed,
with a knife in my hand,
do i dare?
to kill my self,
if i did its not like theyd care,
i push the blade through my brain,
i feel the blood rund down my face,
im going to go to hell now,
its a far better place,
im leaving all my troubles be hind,
and all the people who made me sad,
im leaving the world were i once lived,
and all the things that made me mad,
all the times i felt that i,
just could not go on,
all the times i felt that i,
was being stranded upon,
but now those times are over,
because i have ended my life,
and all of this was possible,
with the sharp edge of a knife.
