There’s a desire to cut.
A despair about death.
The frustration of life.
World full of strife.

So I write something down.
Some pretty words.
And I hope it matters.
But it doesn’t, and everything shatters.

There’s no point to this.
Or maybe there is.
Hope comes first.
I’m going to burst.

Being mentally ill is hard.
Too ******* hard.
I’ll be okay.
But I feel it today.