The Puddle

When I cut the pain is let out,
But it'll return without a doubt.
But for the moment I can rest,
Then it's back to being stressed.

So I grab the knife,
Hoping to end my life.
But the knife does not cut my vein,
Though it does release mental pain.

I cut not for a sudden rush,
But to watch the pain gush.
Out of my arm and drip to the floor,
And so the puddle is added a little more.