Tonight I laid down to sleep and began choking on non-existent tears. Panic began to set in as I started drowning in my fears. So, I quickly rose and, with my favorite pen, I took a stand (for once) and slit my wrists again. My precious ink began to flow; I let it roll onto the page, but it was coming much to slow; I became filled with rage. So, with my wicked tongue, I slit my throat from ear to ear. See, I decided long ago, not to give way to fear. More ink flowed now; faster than before. Still to alive and scared, I needed to do more. I took my vicious pen and stabbed deep into my breast, then tore my broken heart from inside my pain-filled chest. I slammed the wretched thing (hard) unto the page, and the ink ran all over like a beast freed from its cage. It was only then, that my fears finally did subside; to this: (my painfully exquisite) scribbled suicide.