Dead Soul

I can't take it no more.
Nothing makes sense to me
Anymore.
When I stand in front of the mirror,
I don't see my reflection.
Instead I see a tortured soul.
It's eyes dead,
It's skin pale.
I feel so cold,
Nothing lives inside of me anymore.
My face is red with blood,
Its like these hands were made to destroy.
I have done terrible things.
But no more pain,
No more suffering.
It ends,
Right here,
Right now.
I take a gun out of my pocket,
Point it at my head
And pull the trigger.
I am on the floor,
All seems dark and hazy.
I was so cold before
But now,
I feel so warm.

Hello. And welcome here.

Now, to your poem.

First, your very first line, it didn't bother me until I got halfway through your poem.

I can't take it no more.

This is street language. This is colloquy. I had the impression that you would write the rest of this poem in this manner. Kind of like er... Robert Burns, maybe? But you don't. It isn't consistent so it throws your poem off a little. Consistency in the manner in which you write will help.

Its like these hands were made to destroy.
I have done terrible things.
But no more pain,
No more suffering.

I really like this part of the poem. It's dark and also quite vivid.

The end was good as well. But it could still be improved. I'm not sure how. But it just didn't strike me as a vivid enough description of how much better he felt after death.

Sorry, I'm a messy reviewer. Anyway, despite that, I hope I helped and welcome again. See ya around here.

Hi. I really enjoyed this. I have to agree with KnightlyAngel. You could clean it up a little bit. But it is promising...
keep up the good work.