The Letter

The blood feels like silk running down my figertips. I pick and peel and scratch the surface; searching for an answer, begging for a purpose. A sufferor of my own terrible wounds, rich men dont enter the kingdom of heaven neither does the man. trying to find peace with open wrists. the burning sensation, a welcomed bliss. Im sorry for the pain ive caused to all, The disappointment and the disarray. 'Fore I live in this world black and grey, A servant of solitude, swimming in misery.