Everybody's searching for a hero. People need someone to look up to. I never found anyone who fulfilled my need... a lonely place to be, and so I learned to depend on me.
The question isn't 'who is going to let me'; it's 'who is going to stop me'.
Just because I'm smiling doesn't mean I'm happy.
Cutting doesn't solve anything or take the pain away, but for those few seconds everything is Okay...
Some people try to understand, but nobody can know what living like this is like.
I'd rather hang out with the losers that would sit and smoke a cigarette than the ones who wanted to throw a baseball.
When your sure you've had enough of this life... don't let yourself go... because everybody cries... everybody hurts sometimes... sometimes everything is wrong.
That was when I cut my arms with a razor blade as a means of creative expression. I only did it lightly, just grazing the skin, to see the way the blood would bleed out, to make myself look tougher. Not like some of those kids who keep going deeper and deeper, wondering what they look like down to the bone, because it's a world that's so close and yet so far and so dangerous and so much their own. The only world that is their own.
Sometimes I sit and watch the ink leak from my pen. It comforts me to know something else bleeds the way I do.
When I cut myself, I feel so much better. All the little things that might have been annoying me suddenly seem trivial because I'm concentrating on the pain.
I'm playing a game I can't win, I keep losing and losing, why do I keep playing? To me it isn't about winning or losing, I'm just enjoying the game.
Crimson tears run down my arm, All the pain and all the harm. My only way to let it out, I wanna scream, I wanna shout. But I don't make a sound, I keep it inside. I wanna break out, but instead I hide. I sit in my room, and hide in my shell, The life that I'm living, my own private hell. The crimson tears, down my arm they run. I look down at my arm, what have I done?