Every night we turn our hands,
to the devil of our knives.
So many wasted unseen tears,
so many depressed young lives.
Little clones of each of us,
Screaming, crying out our blood.
Shaking, broken on the floor,
Just a dying black rose bud.
Bruises hidden under clothes,
Slits concealed from preying eyes.
Black tinted souls inside,
One heart that breaks and dies.
Screams inside pounding heads,
Nightmares playing every night.
So many times we've tried to go,
So many times we lost the fight.
Depression taken over us,
There's hope for us no more.
Throw away your masks now,
Which everyday we wore.
Catch every teardrop in a jar,
And seal it with your pain.
In another, catch your blood,
That seeps from every vein.
Present them neatly with a note,
Of pain, sorrow and tears.
Explaining to the lack of loved ones,
Just how you've felt these years.
Don't ever expect that they shall,
Understand just how you feel.
Never could they believe your pain,
That all of it could be real.
So leave the countless amount of jars,
On the end of your cold neat bed.
Ignore the feeling of reason inside,
Listen to the voices in your head.
Do what you've wanted to do for years,
Finally leave this world behind.
And with your blood tipped favorite knife,
Let your every wire unwind..