I'm Not Dead Yet.

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.