My desperate cries for help are whispers to a crowd of kings and queens.
I\'m the roach beneath your feet, how do I cope with being what they see?
I go broke as I spend my time on useless forums, seeking validity from outside sources.
Tell me I\'m pretty.
Tell me that I\'m important.
Give me hope for better mornings.
Maybe mornings when I get to wake up next to a man who loves me for who I am.
Maybe a day where I don\'t lay in bed.
I\'m unproductive, I\'m living life to the minimum.
I have issues that take hold of me and control the way I get to live.
I don\'t want to stay in bed.
I don\'t want the devil to play in my head.
I\'m not dead yet.
But if I\'m still a vegetable in the next ten years,
I\'ll slit my roots off.
Please take your shoes off when you walk all over me to respect my death.
Why do I feel unblessed?
Why haven\'t I given up yet?
I\'m not dead yet.
But when I do die, carry on like you will.