As I lie here and the tears stream
I ask myself the same questions
Why does everyone leave
Why does no one love me

For all my years I want love
I love many but no one loves me
Why?
What is so wrong with me that no one loves me?

I can't describe the pain
the pain that you feel.
I can't tell what is worse
what drove me to this, my only option of escape
or watching the blood drip down from the blade

I look down at the lines I just drew across my wrists
my body the canvas, the blade my pencil
I do not feel fear, I do not feel sorrow, I feel joy
as I watch the seconds on the clock continue to count
I know that soon, so very soon I will be free

I can't describe the pain
the pain that you feel

The heart beats the sludge through the body
while the mind waits to collect more subsistence
feeding and gorging itself
Always wanting more, because it's never full

It's not sludge that the heart beats
It's anger, constant anger, just pushing through the body
the mind sits feeding and gorging itself
not realising that it's become something ugly and unrecognisable

The world is full of stereotypes, not that all are bad
I don't agree with them, a person is a person not a type
but their's a saying about writers, writers are addicts
drugs, alcohol, gambling. What's your addiction?

Those who choose to write, those with the calling
we're said to be depressed, we use addictions as a way to escape
from the clutches of a world we can only change in our writing.

As a writer, covering these stereotypes seems like a course in myself
I've been depressed, I've gambled, I wish to change the world.
A stereotype or just a person living in the 21st century.