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Poem one of my friends made. It makes you feel sorry for him... emo

If I were to go away, live somewhere away from here, to never come back, would you cry? Would you even be sad? Don't just say 'yes' to change my mind. I want to know if their is someone that cares. 'cause to me, no one cares.
I want to die. They would be better off. I wouldn't be in the way of anyone. 'Friends', family... they would be happier. Ok, maybe one person would care if I were gone.
Gone. Who would notice? Who would really notice when I vanish?
As I cut my arm, I feel the pain escape from my body through the free flowing blood that trickles down my arm and drips off my fingertips. The sweet smell, taste, even the sight of my own blood.
Blood... mysterious... to me? Blood is a sense of escape from the world. The smell fascinates me, the sight is unbelievable, the fluidness of something so thick, marvelous... The taste? Undescribable!
Leave me alone! I want to be left alone! Let me die slowly... by myself... and with my final breath... I say... nothing. Nothing with my dying voice. I'd rather use my last breath... and give it to her then to waste it on something to soon be forgotten.
My wrists bleed as my body becomes so cold that you can see my breath in warm air. Eyes cloud up, cold to touch, colder than ice. Heart stopping, faint breaths. I'm done, dead, lying next to you, with a tear in your eye, still wishing I was with you, alive.
I cut my wrists in vain to get out what will not be heard... No one will listen to words but when cuts appear, I'm suddenly heard. No one cares till your life is almost gone, invisible to everyone around you, suddenly you become visible... No way back now.
I'm so lonely in this cold room, blood down my arms, crying blood to be heard and loved.
My heartbeat grows faint as my loneliness grows greater, sitting there, straight jacket in all, waiting for someone to care, to get me out. Day and night, I sit whispering "Love me... love me." Voices can't be heard but scars? No matter how small or big a scar is, people suddenly care.
Why...? Why me? Why do all the bad things happen to me?
I sit there, in this dark room sitting in a puddle of my own blood, waiting for her to care, but waiting for her hurts me more than having your heart ripped out of your chest and crushed by the ones who hate you...

This is not a product of mine because I am no writer. I will not take credit for this poem but I will convey the message's you have about it.