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The cut
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Self I'm tired
I can't help but be that way
I try hard to be nice,
but in the end what does it get me?
If I'm mean maybe they'll respect me,
but if not...
will they be able taste my fear?
Can they hear the tremble in my voice?
I'm not afraid of them,
I'm afraid of doubt.
Everything is simple when you have faith
but when doubt comes into it...
My tears fall like rain.
Pure and innocent...
that's what I am.
I can't stand to live reality...
the cuts on my arms hurt to much to do it.
But in all honesty, you're right.
And I hate being wrong.
