I'm dying, I think.
It's really clear.
I just need for you to be here.
I drown my sorrows in whiskey, weed, and beer,
Waiting and waiting to leave this place.
Every time I close my eyes I see your face.
You pop up at the worst of times,
Maybe you just want me to die.
I'm stooping to a brand new low,
Faking a smile, can't quit the show.
Tired of keeping the music low,
Turn it up loud, let the speakers blow.
I tried to let you know,
My depression was never a show.
It wasn't meant for you,
You just looked down to your shoes.
And said I was too blue,
And that I should cheer up.
That maybe I was just down on my luck.
You told me to wait,
And that it'd get better.
But you're not a saint,
My head is under the weather.
But it'll get better,
If I am dead.
I'll put a bullet through my head...
YOU ARE READING
Mistaken
PoetryA book of poems about the LGBT, depression, selfharm, suicide, freedom, and society.
