Dark Poetry for Dark People

It's basically what the title says... I write to vent, so don't expect it all to make perfect sense.

Freedom

Only seventeen and too young to die, everyone would say. At my funeral, people I hardly knew would cry for me and claim how special I was. My teachers would all say that I had been destined to do great things. Maybe then my dad would finally appreciate me and realise what he’d done. Maybe then he’d finally regret his...