Fri, 12/07/2018 - 11:01 -- Oabona

I try to be a winner

But the cuts on my wrists remind me that I'm a sinner

And perhaps mostly that I'll never get better

And all that I gotta do is write a letter

A suicide letter in which I'll explain how hard I tried

But nothing I ever did worked

Every passing day I'd try another way

But the pain refused to go away

The depression would stick around

Perhaps until I'm undergroud

Alone and in the dark in my new home

Not that it'd make much difference anyway

Only that in my new home

There'd be no more pain

There'd be nothing to explain

Nothing to hide

Nothing to run away from.

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