I'm patiently waiting with the razor. My fingers dance with the bitch..
Grazing my veins and refraining from taking the chance of damaging the wrist..
My life was a cursed birth. I work but get no thanks. I get jabbed in the ribs with remarks..
Tears flowing in the dark. Knowing calm will come in a cut and a bloody arch..
Man fuck the world. I'm no Tupac. He had fame, recognition and people to listen..
I'm dissed in any position and kept at a heathen's distance..
Suicide is the dictionary's secret. It's a hushed word whispered at mourning sessions..
Of course I'm digressing. I'm putting off courting this weapon and forcing to end this awkward aggression..
Maybe pills would bring about an easier method. It wouldn't hurt and feel sleepy..
No bitch! It's inevitable! My death will have me discovered with someone stood knee deep..
In my blood. Pen, the unmotivated, most underrated, clumsy, hated guy that never wanted this..
My mirror reflecting a haunted kid. I need to stop taunting. Lift the device and form a slit..
I'm no loss. My mother may cry but she's strong. She'll get over the awkward son..
She pawned the one thing I had...humour. This tumour of hate is daunting, mom..
The razor sinks deep. I grit teeth. It's almost erotic and I'm piercing an artery..
In all honesty death is all I've looked forward to. It gives me a grieving modesty..
I'm collapsed now. Puddled blood, muddled words prove this was never an artful threat..
What was that? A slight scream? Ah hell, farewell world because this is Penskills...dead..