The first blade touched me
Carved the pain and gifted me
The shape of my heart.
My stubborn fate blessed me
On my soul and filled me
With the pain in my blood.
My sketch book
The pain turns the pages.
My new poem
The pain just wrote
And he just heard.
The story of my life
He titles the chapters.
I took a short peek.
The bastard writer is perfectly sick.
I thought if I could start again
Maybe a thousand miles away
I would find a way,
But I only found regrets
And many packs of cigarettes
And bottles of beer and wine
That I am allergic to.
What have I become at last?
The monster I was fighting with.
I will only lead you
To whom I could not defeat.
I grew big but I killed myself
And turned into nothing.
I will only leave you
Broken-hearted dying.
I just manage to get by.
I fight it and the result
Is a fragile ceasefire.
I succumb for a day
And I am gone until
My very next birthday.
A happy one, you wish me.
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