The Letter

The blood feels like silk running down my fingertips. I pick and peel and scratch the surface; searching for an answer begging for a purpose. A sufferer of my own terrible wounds. Rich men don't enter the kingdom of heaven, neither does the man. Trying to find peace with open wrists. The burning sensation, a welcomed bliss. I'm sorry for the pain ive caused to all, the disappointment and the disarray. 'Fore i leave this world in black and grey, A servant of solitude, swimming in piss ...