Down

All I can think about, is
blood.

Flowing,
broken skin.

Self cut, prepare for the
dark flood.

My own blank stares.

Dry eyes, that glaze emptiness
and somebody cold,
who really doesn't care.

I wish I were dead.

Never awoken from slumber,
in the sanctuary, of my
warm, protective, bed.

Blood spill, a catharsis
I can control.
A direct relief, a life cheat,
to my, already dead soul.

Let it out, I'm trying.
Always had bad luck,
no satisfying.

Done.