I conform to my norm,
With my diet of sadness and pain,
My blood and my blade.
I’ve become addicted to this,
My never ending cycle
of tears and shame.
They gave me pills for a cure;
I am incurable.
But within this misery,
I found a sliver of reality.
I want to end this agony.
I silently cry for a savior,
Yet I linger alone in my melancholy torture.
Engulfed I thus become,
In this virulent game.
My new best friend,
Now my miniature scythe.
Where is the reaper now?
I’m done with these drugs.
