When does it end?
It is all self-inflicted;
The pain I feel, the troubles I see;
I don’t want to wake up;
Afraid of what I might do;
Afraid of what I might think;
Escape is not an option;
Just alternative routes to the inevitable darkness;

I am alone in this world;
Fleeting glimpses of beauty, hope and life;
Seen through the glasses of hatred and disbelief;
It’s all self-inflicted;
This guilt and grief;
If I had the power to rid myself of it, would I?
My melancholy is my confidant, my best friend;
Comforts me when I awake, when I rest my head;
When I see happy people oblivious to the inevitable passing;
When I listen to a beautiful quartet;
When I read TS. Eliot;
There is no escape;
There is no light at the end of the tunnel;
There is no solitary truth;
There is no way, and there is no life;
Let death encompass me, and fill me with nothingness;
For surely, it is the least I deserve.
And masochistically have always wanted.

Many would call me depressed;
I cannot disagree with them, nor do I want to;
I just want them to let me go;
Realize that I have let myself slip from my control;
They say gods do not make mistakes;
I cannot disagree with them, nor do I want to;
I want to be alone loving is too painful;
Yet I crave the love of god;
How jagged are my thoughts?
They say love is beautiful;
I cannot disagree with them, nor do I want to;
For I have never experienced the butterflies;
I have never experienced the smiling eyes;
My melancholy is my wife;
And my only love, in this life.