The violets have withered, the rose are dead, i look at my hands civered in red. I remember last night, blood all over the grass, as the wish of death seems to pass . The tears on my face sting in the cool winter breeze, as i slowly begin to rise from my knees. I pick up the blade, that was, of course, hand made, and bring the cold metal up to my neck. I slide it across, and fall to the ground, as at last I am gone, without even a sound (i know that the rhyme scheme is terrible and that there are no stanzas. I only want feedback on material, not grammar.)