She cuts, she bleeds,
the blood drips to her knees,
Drip, drip, drip, onto the ground,
Tap, tap, tap, but still no sound.
With the scissors in her hands,
In the corner she now stands,
The red glow from under the door,
Slowly, she falls to the floor.
The anger is coming out,
All she can do is shout,
Go away! Go away! Go away!
Yet the anger still stays.
Supressing these thoughts,
All these years she has fought,
With her head in her arms,
Crying for help, she demands.
But no one is there to listen,
To see the blood with which she is christened,
Still in this mix-up of confusion,
Nothing is an allusion.
Fear, paranoia, worry,
She is so sorry,
She may be alive,
But for happiness, she strives.
The depression, the anger, the ire, the rage,
No more is it locked in a cage,
These thoughts struggling in her head,
Emotionally, she is now dead.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.