Sometimes
Actually, a lot of times
I get that feeling
That feeling that makes me want to fire the gun
Let the lead bury itself into my brain, ending my life
Letting the crimson fluid, the life-sustenance bleed from my body and run onto the white carpet, forever marking my death.
Yes, sometimes I would like to take my own life, feel the breath drain from my lungs.
Sometimes I feel this way due to recent events
Other times I feel it due to an anxiety welling up inside me
One that cannot be quenched by even the most potent of medications
Sometimes, suicide sounds nice.

I must have drank a lot of pain
Judging by the way it aches
Must have sold a lot of secrets.
Now everybody knows
What my soul really thinks
Of my mind's painful decisions.
My soul, reaching out in agony,
Waiting for a response from the broken clock of my consciousness
I used to tick a regular beat, a steady beat
But now it's all over the place
Some days it ticks faster than I can count, shooting me soaring into a high
Others it ticks slower, seconds turning into minutes; minutes to hours, sending me into the depths of a Hellish low.
This is known by medical professionals as bipolar disorder
But I know it simply as pain.

It's interesting to think
That we are damaging the Earth as we speak
But still, we continue to spew our poison into the atmosphere,
Polluting the air with something we know we cannot breathe
"Just a little more, and then we'll stop", we say,
But still, we burn.
It's almost like how people work
When they pollute the minds of each other
With useless nonsense; a black smoke, created by the words we say and entering each others heads when they hear them.
It's unhealthy. Just like the carbon dioxide,
The useless words we say have little to no meaning.
But very unlike the physical pollution,
We can stop it.
We can turn it around.
But human greed prevents this.
And thus is born an interesting thought.

Oh, Jáckie,
With your heart of gold
And your head of intelligence,
You manage to stir in the emotion
For which we miss.
Your love is ever-extending
Just as your fear of being alone is great.

Oh, Jáckie,
You will never fall for them
Their whippets of lies
And their arrows of agony
They can't hit you
But you can only run from them
Run you will, for they will chase you forever.

Oh, Jáckie,
Music to your ears
Is everyone else's fears
You gain from pain
You wallow from heartfelt
Is it their sorrow from which you feed?
Or is it the blood that streams free...

Oh, Jáckie...