Life is a string of wounds
Holding together that which was never
meant to be
Keeping the sufferings intact
So that we may relive them, when all is dark
And we are at our most miserable
When the wrist is at its most bloodied
A diary of scars, showing what we really are

What the f*ck is wrong with me?
Inside my soul is a dark and growing pain
Sprouting out its decaying wings
Covered in scabs, cuts and bloodied lines
And on these rotted wings, suicide took flight
Wounding me from the inside out
Dragging me down into my misery well

Life is a string of wounds
And we are nothing in ourselves
Bleed the soul, to remove the soiling of life
The stain created by continued existence
The blade is a vessel, leading to some pleasures
Numb yourself, go somewhere life cannot hurt you
You have suffered enough, time to sleep
Where the sadness cannot find you

Life is a string of wounds
Time to cut the cordf
And drift into the comfort of oblivion

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