Pondering alone,
She raises the knife,
She grieves in sadness,
Of what has become of her life.
Her wrists bare,
The knife low,
She bares regret,
Of what she will do now.
She cries in despair,
Her wrists cut by the blade,
As her blood drips,
All her pain flows away.
Her vision becomes blank,
As she falls to the ground,
No one there,
To hear her shrill sound.
Slowly dying,
Yet blood rapidly flowing from her wrists,
No one there to save her,
And no tourniquet... |
