Sometimes I feel like writing,
though I have nothing to say.
Just to feel my pen to the paper,
relieves pressure from my day.

Sometimes I feel like crying,
just to let it all out.
But my own screaming voice won't let me,
cry or hurt or pout.

Sometimes I feel like cutting,
and often times I do.
I hurt myself to feel better,
and the cycle is never through.

Sometimes I feel like dying,
so bad, I cut so deep.
I don't want to feel anymore,
and there's relief as my cuts start to seep.

Sometimes I feel so angry,
I could kill no one but myself.
I am the reason for everything,
you have told me this yourself.

Sometimes I want to give up,
but you demand that I hold on.
When can I finally let go,
when will my era dawn.

Sometimes there's not enough,
to make me live one more day.
I die a little more inside,
with each cut and each hateful word you say.

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