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suicide ¥¡
kimeunha
sometimes, I think of, getting mad,
a sharpest blade going into my chest
bleeding, o,
or of my cut wrist in the hot water
I'm taking down morphine to forget
all ever-present pain
I'm dying
I'm a dead
think of my body detached
from the soul
how sad to look at that shell
but I'm free
don't wanna go back to it
sometimes I think of flying
from the highest building
how light my air-ridden body
I'm flying, flying,
flying toward the forever freedom
I'll feel so good though my head will be
broken like fallen apples on the cemented floor.
I'll be free
how'd be glad to have it back.