Broken

Flowers wilt,

people die,

nothing ever stays alive,

so i constantly wonder why am I.

There's people who beg for just one day longer,

while i am a ghost sad and somber.

i always assume i'd never really do it,

but all i do with my time is plan for it,

Every night I weep and cry,

and wonder where my corpse will lie.

Maybe i'll use a shot from a gun,

possibly a mace well hung,

or any sort of prescription drug
my soul just cries to be done.

i'm told its selfish,

how can that be?

its not the best choice for you,

but it's what i need.

And i'm frequently accused of overreacting,

so i try to be content with only acting,

it's never enough,

i'm forever stuck,
there's tears in my eyes while my
wrist drips with blood,
I've dealt with this scrutiny for so many years,
the bad things you say I always hear,
you call me ungrateful,
an asshole,
a brat,
it's way too hard to put up with that.
you say it's a joke when you call me psychotic,
how is that a joke?
i still haven't got it,
but these phrases are common in our pod of four,
i guess that's just what family is for.