A jolly death

When your wrists cry out for the blood of your salvation

If Jesus deserved to die, how much more Satan

My self esteem is strewn in darkness with nothing left with me but memories of dreams slowly becoming painful realities

All in a bed of nightmares, though sometimes my soul finds the power to fly free

Free away and into the comfort and warmth

Safety and known

Though often I think I feel the noose around my neck, beckoning me to the comfort of death

Creating for me cursed bed

One I toil to remake over and over

To get all of these destructive thoughts out of my head

Will these things truly plague me till I’m dead?

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