I considered killing myself today
No, it's not a cry for help
Just a plea for life
The pressure oh the pressure it hurts and burns

A passing fantasy
How easy and peaceful
Poppy tea would be, just another nap
A beautiful dream that doesn't have to end

It's so much more mature than when I was 15
I used to cut stars into my ankles and call it art
It made sense to induce my own pain, to control it, for once

To have something so abstract as emotion
Visible and finally released as such a brilliant, lively serum

In these times of existential crisis, I realize how morbid I really am
Maybe I'll just be a gothic poet, my hair is already black
I'll wander around abandoned buildings
And read The Bell Jar in the dark

I think I'm going insane slowly, like you know how geniuses think too much
And eventually lose it completely

If I'm too intense for you then no comments are needed
Hold onto my words though and you might relate someday

Maybe this isn't even poetry
Maybe it's just a long lost journal entry I never had the guts to write.