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Bad days are like small doses of pain,
to show what dying tastes like.
When I say bad day,
I mean more bad than the usual bad way.
I made some bad choices,
used all the wrong voices.
Said all the wrong words,
acted like a total ****.
When I do these things,
I hate myself. I don't feel better.
Sometimes it lasts a few days,
Depression really doesn't help me,
it makes me feel not-so-happy.
Then I get punished for the things I do,
when I get depressed. But, you.
You don't care,
You don't believe me,
What does it matter?
It's not like I can feel happy.
Yes it's possible,
I can do some things,
so I feel less awful.
But, wait—that's right—you won't let me.
This **** happens to me all the time
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