Right now.
I wish to die.
My future is death.
Why the hell do I write.
There is no point.
I don't know.
I am depressed.
I am sorrow.
I re-write everything,
just in different format.
I don't care.
I won't be missed.
I am not loved.
I write.
I am tired.
I am in pain.
I am sorry.