Tortured soul peeking through a tiny window,
Waiting for what will never come,
She hears nothing but painful screams.
Faces come and go, but there is no constants,
After 5 years, they know her by heart,
They call her unstable, insane, and, suicidal.
In a way, it's all true,
But medicine doesn't help, nor does therapy,
They tell her what's wrong,
Never able to speak, to tell them the truth.
To tell them her plans for shutting them up,
If she's gone, will it finally end?
Will they finally realize the problems she had?
The blade is her medicine,
Wine is her therapy,
They found her face down,
With a note in her hand, "Mother Forgive Me."