He didn't mean to kill himself

The comfort of the blade is what he craves,

Its solace is what his mind seeks.

When anger and hatred cloud his judgement

And his anxiety is at its peak.

Though in rare times of happiness,

he wishes that he could stop.

Afraid one day he me cut to deep,

And feel his dying body drop.

But then he feels the pain again,

The kind that drags him to his knees.

Then he feels he must cut deeper,

could someone help him, please?

He drenches himself in sorrow and loathing,

Its in the form of his own blood.

So still he must cut deeper,

his tears mixing with the flood.

He wishes he was normal inside,

that he didn't desire the sharp steel blade

But it is the only kind the offers penance

For the many mistakes he has made.

Right now his cuts seems to be enough

To take away his strife.

But i fear that much to soon

he will accidentally end his life.

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