my head hurts.

has they scream my name, silently,

i slit open the scars that prevented my demons to come out.

with a knife, this knife, i killed myself,

over and over again,

and, with each new cicle,

of a spree of self destruction,

i am born.

time and time again,

i can see death's face.

i can feel its breath,

on my face,

i can feel its touch,

in my heart.

i was made, yes,

not by someone divine,

on the contrary,

i am evil,

and only in the darkness i find confort.

i embrace the monster i am,

has i lick the blood from my wrists.

if i am someone,

why can i not see my own reflection?

the voices are loud,

far to loud for me to tell wich is mine.

am i just a voice?

maybe, i always was but a voice,

a burning cigar,

and a hollow self.

i wanted to be saved,

but now it is too late.

too far deep have i sank,

to ever be rescued.

goodbye.