With these stories I craft.
You would think I am doing great
But these stories are just a mere draft.
From the depressed little shit filled with self hate.
These poems help me not commit any crime.
The flow of emotions from my brain to the keyboard.
When I don't write I think of suicide all the time.
I fake my emotions so you don't know.
Any happiness had, got smothered.
The sadness inside me is a bright blue glow.
I honestly don't know why i'm telling you this, but that's what bothered.
I go for your help, but you pretend I don't exist.
You just turn your back on me.
Without help, this sadness will always persist.
You only cared about me the day I was in a school announcement.
"...sadly shot himself in his room last night."
But I already discovered what you do to people, you torment.
You didn't even cry, not even just slight.
I follow you home, to see if you finally snap.
But you go into a dresser, and pull out something fun.
You go up to your room, supposedly to "take a nap."
When I see what's in your pocket, a gun.
I can't do anything to stop you.
You sit on your bed, and start to have a crying fit.
You did care, you saw my emotions turn blue.
You sit crying, as you point the gun to your head and cock it.
"Save me." You whisper.
Your tears turning bigger.
You start to whimper.
Your door is knocked on, after you pulled the trigger.
