I find the sting comforting, the little tingle that stays behind,
I find the blood still flowing, though I’ve already died inside.
At night, sleep does not find me, Instead there is thought,
I can think all night, and come up with more than one ought.

I wonder what it’s like, to finally lie down and die,
sometimes I wonder who would show up, and who would cry.
I’m not talking about ending my own life, at least not all the time,
this time I wonder what it’s like, to die for a cause to call mine.

To die for one’s country, to die for one’s family,
to die like a man, or to die crying “why-me”.
These thoughts are not healthy, at least not at my age,
but these thoughts are in plenty, like I’m trapped in a cage.

I never talk, at least outside of my friends,
I never want to come outside, not even for the end.
I like to shut myself away, to sit alone and think,
I like to ponder my thoughts and listen to the drip in the sink.

Silence is my friend, still staying old and true,
silence will always listen, and never interrupt you.
Darkness my old friend, it’s always nice to see you again,
I know its been a while since we've talked, to my disdain.

So, why keep this blade, this damn little tyrant?
Why does it hold me captive, in silent torment?
I need it you see, for more than some sick zeal,
I need this cut to see, to make sure, I still feel.