The only good thing about life is that we get to die at the end of it

don't fall in love
with the beautiful traveler
because when you do
it won't even matter
for when you've shared your time
you'll be left, broken and shattered

I don’t know who I am.
Sometimes I feel like I’m not even real.
Not dead, just a little lost.
But very much alive.
Maybe, too alive.
Always thinking
I think until I self destruct
I think until I destroy every bit of reality
Breathing, living, existing.
All for nothing.
But it doesn’t hurt anymore.
I’ve come to accept insignificance.
Processed that there is no true meaning.
Nothing has a meaning.
If there’s no meaning, I can’t truly ruin everything.
With no meaning, comes emptiness but a little peace too.
Maybe I will find contentment in my absolute, utter uselessness.
Maybe, being nothing is okay.

He spent his life  in factorys
Worked his fingers to the bone
Fifty years have come and gone
Now retired he stays at home.
A family he provided for
Now the children they have grown
They have all moved on and fled the nest
They've got to make it on there own.
He looks around at all four walls
And he wonders just were he is going
So he thinks about this thing called life
And writes about it in a poem.

I'm trying
I'm dying
I'm lying
I'm crying

I'm trying to fight my mind
I'm dying to let you know how I feel
I'm lying about being ok
I'm crying alone

I'm trying to help myself
I'm dying to save you
I'm lying I don't want to be here
I'm crying because I'm scared

I'm trying to fight back the tears
I'm dying with the thoughts
I'm lying I'm not trying
I'm crying out for help

I'm trying
I'm dying
I'm lying
I'm crying