lines

there is nothing like a blade
pressed against the skin
wielded by a lover
who has lost their love for thee
no sound as needless blood spills
to the exhalation of dispair
that for to long has been
held within the deepest heart

who is anyone to say
what is right and what is not
who has lost and who has won
no one, no one, no one

dreams have been discounted
life slowly drags along
crawling in a vain attempt
to keep up with the throng
that blade it keeps on sawing
the dullness doesn't help
because blood must spill
it is the will
of the weakling that i am

press it harder
press it deeper
maybe a goal is set
to drift away
this very day

i cannot think tonight.