Love was the razor he kept in the pocket of his blazer.

He couldn't go a day without seeing his blood because if he didn't, his emotions hit him like a flood.

He found bliss in the razor sliding across his skin, once or twice, he felt the comfort in the dark of the sandman's kiss.

No one knew that he thought about jumping from a the roof, just like no one knew that the only knot he can tie is a noose.

He felt guilty because he was told he should be happy, there were others that had worse than he.

But he really couldn't help getting an itch that he couldn't scratch because everyday and night felt like a battle, some sort of match.

He's tired of waking up in tears because he had these anxieties and fears.

He's tired of smiling when he feels like crying.

He's tired of laughing when he feels like dying.

He's tired of clawing at his skin because his body feels dirty with someone else's sin.

He's tired of calling his existance life when in reality, all it is, is strife.