A simple stupid question suspiciously surrounds secretive thoughts.
At least, that's what I think.
I don't know where to get to where I want to go.
I don't know how to be who I want to be.
I have hated myself so much,
It's hard to find and figure foundations of fulfilling opinions
Of who I am.
Like, a tidal wave of depressive memories
Washing over me in rivers;
Lakes;
Oceans of my own tears and blood flowing from myself.
Yeah, I am a fucking project.
A suicidal ship wreck
One step
From the edge and I will be gone,
But why all along
Have I stayed?
I am not strong.
I know this.
In my head I have killed myself thousands of times,
Plotting the best method
Like a silenced sadistic
Masochistic
Music major
Conducting a symphony of self-destruction.
Yes, I am fucked up.
Where do I go?
What do I do?
I have no fucking clue.
I have always just wanted to die.
Sometimes I find that
Being gone would be better.
I wouldn't have to deal with my emotions
Or others.
I wouldn't deal with disappointment.
I wouldn't deal with sadness.
Why the fuck can't I be happy?
Dammit, this poem went nowhere
Real quick.
I don't know,
Keep going on without me.
