with nothing left
everyday i wake up hoping to die
i show not a sign
but the pain in my eyes
ridiculed in my plain disguise
of what i really am
and of what i dispise
i wreak everything
i ever touch
i cant do that anymore
its all to much
i wanna slit my wrist
and let the pain bleed away
to feel the cold numbness
of death on its way
most would say thats suicide
i call it poetry in motin
poetry with out words
no pen or parer
but like a play of the writen words
acting it out
suicide is poetry
i have no doubt