Poetry

She took a razor from her bag
And led herself through the game.
She put the razor on her hand
And once again she slit her veins.
The river float down her hand,
Her veins were turning red.
She cut herself once more, again,
Relief she felt was great.
She couldn’t stop, no, not this day.
The razor blade fell from her hand,
Her tears were turning red.
She killed herself, she didn’t care,
She lost her love, again.
She died in tears, with happy face,
She closed her eyes at last.