DaRKSide

He's sitting on the floor, feeling empty space inside in his heart. This empty space is making him living that moment with a painful, voiceless suffering. He wants to screaming about pain, as usually on stage, and looking for the help. But softly voice in the back of his head is ordering to keep silence. He is hating himself so much and all that he wants it's numb that pain. He is forcing himself get up from the floor. In lamped light going from the window he is seeing his room is dark and in a mess. Just cuz he ain't have strength to clear it up. Since a long time. He is raising his trembling hands to the eyes. These hands, more accurately, skin on it is full of abrasions and scratches and its knocked knuckles are bleeding. Flaming tattoos are accentuating the thinness of his wrists. He is smiling inside, because his lips unable to take the right position. Perhaps these tattoos are the only one good part of his body. The rest parts skinny, faint and bony. He is taking off his glasses, slightly pressing the eyeballs. His eyes are tired. He is looking around his room, noticing lying on the floor pages from his sketchbook. Its such nonsense. He is finally finding the razor. He is sighing and presses at the elbow bend with blade. All it will passing soon.