When I thought I could let go,

and let life take its flow,

is when I get hit pretty hard,

taking the shot of a shard,

crimson red seeping from my back,

leaving everything to fade black,

as I hang from this steep cliff,

with my every movement so stiff,

smelling the rancid smell of death,

as I begin to take my final breaths;

but you sit there watching me,

even smile as I seem to plea,

not even extending your hand,

as if you didn't want me to withstand,

so even as I start to slip,

and ever so slowly lose my grip,

you sit there and wait the time,

taking pride in this horrid crime.