Death At It's Point

my fingers are numb,
from the blood that has once run,
through my veins, it's gone.

I ask that I stay,
where the red liquid had poured,
through the deep cut mark.

my vision is thin,
my breathing begins to stop,
my eyes will close shut.


whisper the word "why?",
"because I was living lies",
that's my poor excuse...

now I write these words,
and tell you why I lay here,
my fingers so cold.