Right now.

I wish to die.

My future is death.

Why the hell do I write.

There is no point.

I don't know.

I am depressed.

I am sorrow.

I re-write everything, 
just in different format.

I don't care.

I won't be missed.

I am not loved.

I write.

I am tired.

I am in pain.

I am sorry.