There are times when I sit back and wonder why I keep going on
I wonder who would really miss me if one day I were suddenly gone
There are times I can feel suicide's warm, soft, and comforting grip
I wonder who would mourn my death as I feel myself slowly slip.
There are times I wonder why I stopped cutting it felt so good
I wonder why it relieved the pain, I never thought that it would
There are times I wonder why I bother to pick up my fountain pen
I wonder if anyone would be sad or upset if I never wrote again.
There are times when I am happy, and I hope it will last
I wonder if my life could stay this way, free from my painful past
There are times life is good to me and I am truly surprised
I wonder if this is normal, is life less dark than I had surmised?