She sits there alone,
Crying; crying over her life,
Debating over the idea; over an idea
To slit her wrist with her pocketknife.
She cries out in pain,
As she drags the knife over her wrist,
When will this torture end?
She decides.
She can’t go home,
Her family doesn’t love her.
She can’t go anywhere,
She’s not old enough.
Where can she go?
She can end her life,
For her own satisfactions.
She can end this life,
To get to heaven.
But someone comes along,
And tugs at her soul,
Telling her to…
Continue
Posted on July 3, 2008 at 7:58pm — 17 Comments
Comment Wall (257 comments)
You need to be a member of Good Charlotte to add comments!
Join this social network
View All Comments