The Razor be My best Friend

A poem of truth faced head-on in my not-too-distant past

The razor be my best friend
sitting along my fragile skin;
resting ever so carefully along my wrist.
Praising the time
when pressed so hard
slicing deeply
into my fragile wrist.
Blood flows freely,
draining away my life-force.
This beach of flesh,
sliced neatly apart
painting a blood red portrait
of the puddle growing quickly
on the bathroom floor.
Where are the Gods?
Where are the Pearly Gates of Heaven?
All I see is an icy darkness
in which I drift...
in which I drift...
onwards, into eternity.