Sitting in my bath, with suicidal thoughts on my mind like I'm turning into a psychopath.
As I sit here, I'm thinking of letters I'd send to my old friends.
And as I write them out, after I'm finished, I recite all their words over and over again.
But for me contemplating suicide isn't something new,
It's just, over these past few days, thought like these are all I knew.
I wonder,
Is death calling my name or have I truly going insane?
Maybe both because it's gone on for so long, it's all become the same.
For some reason these death letters are something I'm proud of to sign my name.
I guess it's because I feel I've never been truly honest with anyone,
I feel like I truly never expressed my thanks for what they've done in my life.
And when I read over these letters, I can't help but cry,
Because I know once they get them,
I'll be hurting them with every word and rhyme.
Even from the grave, I know I'll feel the pain,
Of how much I hurt them inside,
Because I chose to be selfish,
And finally take my life.
But I can't help it.
I can't help but feel this way, every day of my life.
I always feel as if I'm unwanted.
I always feel as if I burden the people I'm around.
I feel as if the world would be better off without me,
Because I feel like I'm the most horrible person to be found.
I'm the epitome of the word useless,
And when I try to do anything, I just look like a clown.
When I look at myself In the mirror, all I see is someone worthless,
It's hard to even believe people want me around.
If they do, my mind tells me it's because they have no one else.
I can't help but always feel like a last option,
Because everyone seems to be perfect when compared to myself.
I mean, who would really want me around?
Look at me, listen to how I sound.
I'm a no body trying to walk in the shoes of someone who's better,
And way more profound.
I try to be better but,
No matter how hard I try, it never seems to count.
So when I write these letters, I make sure every letter is perfect,
And each word carries something more than just a sound.
With each letter, I pour out my heart like a can of paint.
Staining each paper and everything that surrounds with my blood,
Until the local pastor cries out for heaven's sake.
Just so you can know that my life is on these words,
And that none of my love for you was fake.
I hope you can forgive me in the end,
If it is my life I might take.
