Don’t ask why I hurt, ask not why I cry.
Half of you know the exact reasons why.
My cuts are bleeding, my throat is dry.
My heart cannot feel anymore, my soul has become a dark deep hole.
The tears that weep from my open wounds, are crimson and self-inflicted.
I’m tormented daily by scars and memories.
I’m starting to wonder, if I should go on.
Or if I should embrace the Reaper, and sink into peaceful oblivion.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Go on... Don't ever embrace death, for many would miss your comforting presence-myself included.