Ill.

I am not one for little words,
In fact I am rather loud,
I could deafen birds,
And many a crowd.


But I am in fact ill,
I cannot see a happy side,
But I'll find a will,
But not before I've cried.


I do not wish to upset,
But I wish not feel this way,
I know I am my own threat,
Cause I cannot keep the knife at bay.


Clawing my nails into my palm,
Tearing off peels of skin,
I might feel calm,
But I have fallen to my own sin.


I know I will be my own end,
How I do not know,
Though this seems difficult to comprehend,
I will not go out without a show.