Poetry

I'm not alright,
I'm broken inside.
I'm slowly dying,
With nowhere to hide.

So many lies,
And so much pain.
I rather be dead,
Than living in the rain.

I remember the time,
Where I would ball my fist.
And slowly drag the knife,
Across my wrist.

I remember the blood,
As it flowed out of me.
But not enough,
For the world to see.

I hid the truth,
From all of my friends.
So they would not see me,
At my end.

Ya I've stopped,
And ya I've been clean.
But my past still haunts me,
In my dreams.

So next time you ask me me if I'm alright,
I'll say no.
Then the truth,
Is what you'll finally know.