Self Correction

I need a reminder of how fucked up I am. Or else, I let loose thinking I'm the man. So, I slash my wrist every time I feel like I'm gonna stand. An empty mind is my demand. Breaking through a barrier in my mind. The pain releases endorphins so sublime. The blood runs across my arm dripping through time. A powerful shot of memories crosses the tide. How many times have I said, "I'm sick of living?" It's at least more than I can count out. Why am I still here suffering? It's making me crazy, living in a drought. I don't cry, I laugh. A sinister laugh pertaining to my worries. Afterwards, I no longer feel the draft. The only thing I feel is sorry.