Every single breath,
Is beginning to seem pointless.
I'd be better to hold it,
Until I turn blue.
What is there left for me,
If no one loves what I am?
I might as well just accept fate,
I was never meant to be cared about.
I was made to be disposable,
Able to be used when they needed me,
And to be discarded when they were done,
Like a piece of garbage.
I was never meant for a greater purpose,
I'll always end up on someone's mental curb,
I was put here to help those in need,
And discarded when they were no longer in need.
YOU ARE READING
A Cry For Help
PoetryAll of my "Wonderful" poems, based around suicide and other ideologically sensitive topics, as well as poems about depression, anxiety, and self doubt.
