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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: July 01, 2017

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Submitted: July 01, 2017



It's at these times in my life I have to stop and think, “how the fuck does someone be happy.” Dramatic? Maybe, but truthful. Suicide, the easy way out. I think about it, I dream about it, I’ve pictured my own death over a thousand times. I’ve had a plan, I’ve had a note, but I could never pull through. It’s glorious to me, taking your own life… That way no one else ever has the ability to drain it from your eyes again.  You have to be a certain level of selfish to end it, I would be dead if I didn’t care so much for the people around me. I’m jealous of those who have had the ability to cut the string between the ones you care about and the fact you don’t care for yourself. I don’t want to live, I don’t want to be on this planet. But I can’t leave. And I hate it.  I have a mother, a father, a sister, friends that all would be left scared. I hate that. And i hate caring. What i really want is to blow my fucking brains out and be left unnoticed. Like I am while I’m alive. Unnoticed.

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