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Here is some poetry I wrote:
The world is a sea of grey
And woe
And all over the ground
Are shards
Of glass, as well as rusted
Razor blades
So it hurts when I walk down
This line,
This Earth,
This grey-black life
Of woe.
Poetry, greyness, cutting my wrists, poetry, unhappiness, woe, self-pity, my fringe, poetry.
A world where there is no grey or black, and no sky that rains acidic bullets of acid upon my head. Where I may frolic and be free of this cruel world. This kitten of torment.
No music can capture the violent disrupt in even the most upbeat corners of my soul.
I have no interest in films. They only confirm that I am alone in my plight, that I am singled out against all the world. Oh, the hurt.
Television does nothing but show me that there is a world of conflict and disregard for the feelings of others out there, through dramas and other such programmes. Everyone tries to hurt, yet I feel it all, as though a sponge, or a sheet of Bounty, for the evil and unhappiness in this world.
Were I to read, I would only see a page where the background were white, and the text were black. This clear definition; a simile for the happiness in the world - the white - and the pain and suffering only I feel - the black.
Those who have the courage to do away with their lives, to escape this pit of suffering. I wish I were as big as man as them, yet I am not, which depresses me further. I will be back soon - I must slice my arms to shreds to pay back the people I know for their cruelty and hatred towards me.