the story of my life is not written in ink
its written in the blood from my wrist
shed over caring what others think.
the cover of my story is a mask, you see
every first impression, every second glance
really, its just what others think they see in me
the story of my life is spelled out with tears
i’ve made too many mistakes, i live in regret
i’m tired of always giving in to my fears
of course the story of life is bound with love
held together only by the few that care
they kept me strong, surely sent from above
each page of my story is another memory
things that happened, people i had seen
the good, and the bad, everything that mattered to me
and now the end to my story; its not written in ink
its written in the last drop of blood from my wrist
shed for the last time over what others think
and mixed with the last of my tears
i don’t care; i’ve given up
i’m done fucking up, sorry to waste the past 14 years…  

now let me tell you what happened to the story of my life
the cover fell off, the binding fell apart
the words became smudged and the pages blew away
and no one ever read the story of my life
again.