Life Story


United States
42° 46' 28.1244" N, 94° 59' 50.8056" W
I shake, and I shiver.
They're starting to see past the glitz and the glimmer.
It's getting harder to smile and laugh
When I want to scream and die. How can I deal with that?
Like a blood hound,
My heart pounds.
The voices sound.
My fate is bound
To live this dark misery.
As to what is causing it is a mystery.
Lurking behind me are mean monsters.
Are they real or imaginary?
Are they friends or are they haters?
It seems people hurt me more than my razors.
They don't spill blood; they don't leave cuts, but it still hurts.
It feels like all my love got kicked in the dirt.
Does it mean I'm strong
If I'm still breathing?
I don't think it makes someone weak
Just for thinking about leaving.
Zero must be the score.
Who am I breathing for?
What am I breathing for?
Does it matter anymore?
I'm an empty shell who's going to burn in hell.
If there's an afterlife, then you won't feel changed.
You'll be dead and still hate yourself.
Asking for answers but none of us want to find the answers for ourselves.
People see so blindly, so one sidedly.
I take pleasure and pain in thinking of all things around me.
It gets me high off knowledge, not drunk off power.
Looking back on this poem, I seem like a downer.
Maybe I am.
I'm real, real low.
My thoughts go through honey.
Sometimes they go real slow.
Boom! Blast! They go really fast.
I can't stop talking, and I have a panic attack.
Afterwards I'm fine, and I get a little crazy.
And when I wake up, my memory's a little hazy.
I just give up,
And I stop giving a fuck.
Where is the trust?
This paranoia in my head is too much.
I'm angry, so angry.
I might just snap.
Any second, clock is ticking.
Time can't be turned back.
Now I'm all by myself, wishing that I wouldn't live.
Trying to bargain and persuade, he can't be cohersed.
God is not perfect if these are the things he gives.
I can't even think about the people who suffer worse.
I'll never have what I want so much.
I want it. I want love.
I want to give everything, but what's there to give?
A small, cold heart and a deflated will to live?
The difference between it and I is that I can't deal.
I just shut down and want to die.
Depression, obsession, illogical oppression.
That hope at the end of the tunnel must be the light.
Or is it a lie to entrap me in the dark,
To keep me stagnant like a tragic work of art?
What is real? What is fake?
Nothing is ours. Patterns sewn into our brains.
It's not worth the fight.
I cry, fight with all my might
Not to use the razor.
No, not the razor tonight.
I crack and I bleed,
And I hurt myself again.
What I need is to stop.
What I need is a friend.
Every time I crash, it's just hard,
Harder to crawl out of this hole.
I try to find who I was once inside.
She died a long time ago.
Now I can't look at myself without feeling disgust,
And I won't talk to anyone because they won't give a fuck.
What's the point in trying? All I think about is dying.
This is my life story, and the ending might be rough.
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