Rolling around and tied in a grasp,
Couldn't give an opinion,
They never even asked.
You weren't alive when you were almost killed,
Thereupon, you've been growing up on pills.
Every evening at 4:55,
A sweet scent fills the room of mine,
Making me anticipate its source,
Making me question the grounds of ruling alive.

At 7, I discerned what lads actually were,
And the fear within me arose,
Too bewildered to even utter,
And everytime I had had an alike night terror,
I entirely rather froze.
Rebound of dusk and I allow myself inhale the odor anew,
One of the lull moments I spend periodically,
The moments rather lasting only for a few.

At my present pubescent years,
Which seem identical to a curse.
Four walls with a roof and trapped,
Held captive along with a noxious herd.
I reach out to the fragrance,
Its source is the abyss.
The abyss that is actually the reality I deserve,
An actuality where I don't have to agonize,
An existence where I don't have frail wrists.

When I ultimately attain that existence,
I'll neglect these years,
Neglect this poem
And neglect my peers.
It'll be a happily ever after,
Until I ultimately pass away.
I'll question Lord and ask Him what other decisions he has to make.