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.