I feel like a character.
I don't know whose story i'm in,
And i don't know how to get out.
I have no clue who i even am.
...
He, Does Not Mean Me
He slides razor blades down his wrists like credit cards, and watches as his blood free falls off his fingertips and onto the floor like kamikaze flyers, exploding into tiny pools beside his feet. His body isn't an ATM, he just treats it that way. Dropping deposits of colored pills and hatred into his blood stream. His eyelids are a dam, broken by his tears. He doesn't mean to be like this, but neither the sun, nor the moon are on his side. They both dance around him haughtily. Taunting him to end his life. And as pessimism grasps at his neck, he gives in. His last breath lingering in the air. Whispering to the moon and sun, 'I'm free.'