There's a boy coming to the E.R,
he's bleeding, bleeding from an old scar.
He's cut his arm in selfdefence,
against the monsters who taunt him and his head.
The blood is pouring, nurses hurry up!
The doctor stares, he stares at the cut.
The boy shuts his eyes, he's falling asleep.
His heartbeat turns slower, with every beat.
They sew him up and stop the bleeding,
they help his heart live, but he lies there pleeding;
"Please let me rest, I just want to sleep",
then all of a sudden they hear a loud beep.
The boy has died, he didn't make it.
He got his wish, they didn't break it.
His soul still lives, here among us all.
Now listen up and hear him call.
He's calling for help 'cause he's trapped in this world.
He's calling for help, but no one has heard.

Emelie Strange
April 2008

Hittade en gammal dikt jag skrivit och jag tycker den är helt okej faktiskt. Gillar den. Den handlar om dödslängtan jag hade då, och fortfarande har till och från. Man skriver alltid mycket bättre när man mår dåligt. Lustigt, eller hur?