The Bloody Deed

I'm all alone now, have been for days, I keep all the sad feelings in angry ways. It's pushed aside and let out through art rather tools, better to keep turning to the sharps like fools. I don't speak about it, not just for my own sake, but everyone else's too. The disappointment they'll have and the damage it would do, but I save them from it, and have myself a bad heart, I keep it all in quiet and let it out on guitar. I sing songs with lyrics at the top of my head, all about the end and the light ahead. It's hurtful to think someone at my age has thought about it so much, after adults and doctors not making a fuss of such. The day I was born I was cursed out of birth that my life would suck from when my feet hit the turf. But I don't complain for my own sake and my own benefit, there's worse people out there turning slit by slit. And each one scarring and staring as it bleeds, the dark blood runs and starts to stain their sleeve. In wooden beds they turn or in a rock with their burns, just a stone to their name and a life 'lived all the same'. Nobody will understand what goes in my head, nobody knows what I dream when I lay down for bed. But my only wish is for others to see, that it's painful to force silence over these bloody deeds.