Sand Dune

Suffering in silence
Suicide is on my mind and I cannot deny it.
I'm marked for death; I can't hide it.
Nobody can see the crazy shit inside my eyelids:
A Chuck E. Cheese ball pit ruled by a tyrant;
Two tons of rotten meat, eight years expired.
Every day it feels like I'm dyin'. (sadge man)
I'm fat as hell; I need a fucking diet. (Packman)
Hugging a tear-stained pillow
To ease the pain
all inside my veins.
Psychotropics inside my brain
Keeping myself from driving me insane.
Broke, impotent, and lame.
All the advice I ever get is the same:
"Suffering and death is all a part of the game
Just like playing top lane against a Vayne."

My spirit's subsumed into a cruel mind where
self-hatred flows like the Danube.
Dropped off and used, like a doll
in a cabbage patch turned sand dune.

Is this the honest truth? Or am I just
tying my own noose, and dying before you?
What is a boy to do when he's nowhere near
being the man that he's supposed to?