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It sits upon his bed,
Youd think that it was them, but he is reading it instead,
Has he said exactly what he wants to say?
The paper cries his tears and bleeds his blood,
Its every living memory, wished silently away.
Perhaps you cannot hear how silently he weeps,
How he hangs himself there every night,
Till he cries himself to sleep,
Perhaps the scars arent visible in denial,
Telling years of misery,
But hidden by a smile
Its all mixed up inside his head,
How could he explain to them that he is already dead?
Has he written every word the right way?
Theres only so much one soul can take,
I guess he knew hed be writing this someday.
Perhaps you cannot hear how silently he weeps,
How he hangs himself there every night,
Till he cries himself to sleep,
Perhaps the scars arent visible in denial,
Telling years of misery,
But hidden by a smile
He thinks its time he signed his life away,
For so much hurt somebody has to pay,
I guess its him again,
I guess its him again,
He breathes relief, theres nothing left to hide,
Like his life, you could call it another silent suicide
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