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As I sit here in my room, I cry. Cry for all the ones who have hurt me. Cry for all the ones I've hurt. I think to myself when will my pathetic and pittyful life end. When will someone put me out of my miseary. But at that thought I tell myself why not just put myself out of my own miseary? Why not make eveyone elses life better, with the end of mine. So with my mind made up I slowly walk to my bathroom. Sitting on my procealen tiled floor, with the ever so sharp razor blade in my hand, I tell myself it will all be over soon. And with that notion, I slit my wrists. As my blood slowly pools on the floor, I wait for my sweet relief. My breath slows with every second and I become more at peace with my death. More at peace because I'm ending a life that should not have been mine. Fate dealt me this hand and I as sure as hell wasn't excepting it likely. With my thoughts slowly leaving my limp body, I think to myself it's almost over. With that last thought I close my eyes and fall into the sweet obisque that is called my death.