The scars on my wrist.

The temptations: I thought I could resist.

I made a fist...

Trying to twist

Those thoughts that had to persist.

Here...I am forced to subsist

In a depression that's just too deep.

The mountain I am forced to climb is just too steep.

My composure: I try to keep.

I am in my own, personal, black abyss.

When I make scars, I achieve a higher level of bliss.

No..My old life, I do not miss.

Since then, it has all went amiss.

That is all my life consists

Of: Sadness and anguish.

I sit here, crying, languishing.

In my own personal Hell.