With perfect scars
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With perfect scars upon my wrists,
I sit here in the loneliness of my own mind.
I am on the verge of frantic,
I feel my sanity slipping away from me,
and I don't even feel the need to regain my strength.
I seek solitude when chaos is near,
and chaos is always lurking under the surface of the waters in my mind.
So I sit here on my own,
I see beauty in pain and unlikely places.
I am anxious for death and silence,
yet they have been denied to me and I will have to wait,
wait until the day comes,
the day when nothing matters anymore.
The day when my bones have crumbled to dust and blown away by the wind,
until I am spread over land and sea,
and I'll be free again.