Well I can't think.
But I think all the time.
And I can't stay calm.
When everything about me is wrong.
I can always breathe.
But I don't always take that as good.
I'm thinking differently now.
And it's not at all positive.
I don't know what I have faith in.
Seems like negativity outweighs religion.
I can't even look at school work.
I just want to tear it up.
I guess I could try and push.
But I doubt it would work.
I don't see I'll ever get that done.
Each day I question what might've been sanity.
And everyday that seems to get smaller.
I see the stress.
I feel the occasional tears.
What can you do in the world.
When the world's against you.
Capable of sleeping but stay up too late.
Then worry about not getting enough.
Which makes even more stress.
That you already have.
Life's a *****.
It's not my friend.
It's not yours either.
Because one day we'll all reach our death.
Then there will be nothing left.
You won't know pain.
Because you won't be here.
Those left behind hurting.
Well one day they'll die anyway.
If there's a purpose for life.
Then it is to die.
So the reason there's a start.
Is that there's an end.
Which means there's no point.
So I may as well be dead.
But this is just all too ironic.
This poem is by a happy girl.
With everything going.
She'd never throw away her life.
And thinks it's such an amazing gift.
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
I can still write this.
With meaning as well.
Because this life is just eternal hell.
Well until the our death day.
Then there's just a bunch of nothingness.
You won't even be able to say.
"Oh well."