The end.

Why am I so empty,
When the earth is far too full?
Why does everyone see colours,
But everything is dull?

Why do I write poems,
When my head doesn’t make sense?
Why when people joke,
I can’t help but take offence?

I could ask a million why’s,
And none would get an answer,
What is my life purpose,
When I’m feeling like a freelancer.

I stick out far too much,
It’s like I’m painted green.
Or maybe painted red,
If I hadn’t gotten clean.

Maybe I’m too fat,
So that’s another thing I’ll control,
And I’ll starve and starve and starve,
To reach my insane goal.

Or maybe somethings wrong,
Something deep inside my brain.
All this pressure to be normal,
I can’t cope with all the strain.

Maybe I’ll just cut,
Who cares if I was clean.
A relapse is a thrill like no other,
I knew that at fourteen.

Maybe I’ll just end it,
Just f*****g kill myself.
Then they’ll burn me to ashes,
And keep me on a shelf.

Maybe I’ll commit murder,
Kill everybody else.
I sure hate them enough,
I’ll hang them all with belts.

I f*****g hate myself,
I f*****g hate myself.
I f*****g hate myself,
I f*****g hate myself.

Can’t write poems,
Can’t write songs.
Can’t write books,
Can’t wear thongs.

My rhyming’s s**t,
My lines don’t match.
You thought I wrote poems,
Well here’s the catch.

For god’s sake I’m sixteen,
Why can’t people see this.
I don’t know the world’s answers,
I’ve not even had my first kiss.

So I’ll f*****g kill myself,
I’ll do it with a gun.
But that’s illegal in my country,
So I guess I’ll just f*****g run.

I’ll run and run and run,
Until my legs fall right off.
Then I’ll stick them on and run some more,
And then I’ll f*****g jump off.

A bridge.
A building.
Anything.

So f**k today,
And f**k tomorrow.
Cause I don’t wanna live.

You won’t see me anymore,
I’ll f*****g kill myself.