Winters Blade
I slide the blade accross my wrist,
an urge I just could not resist.
I don't actually want to die,
but all I ever do is cry
and I'm so sick to death of my pain & regret.
Perhaps the blood shed is the only way to pay this debt.
Winter snow soild by a blood red stain,
the feeling of slowly going insane.
This poem is about:
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: