Growing old at seventeen,
my future’s sneaking up on me.
I dont wanna continue, gotta be cautious.
Just thinking about it makes me grow nauseous.

On the floor, a flurry of darkened pages.
Tallying up the waste of my life’s wages.
On a sea of flattend trees I’ll float,
putting stamps on my suicide notes.

You tell me I’ve got talent, is it true?
It won’t appear on a different spinner’s loom.
A lack of inspiration holds me in duress,
I’ll give it to those who’ll clean up my mess.

You can fight; in whose ground lies the fault?
I’ll take all your words with a grain of salt.
Around my quiet castle I’ll build a moat,
and in the mail you’ll find my suicide notes.

A beauty in the eyes in your sockets,
yet there’s no picture to fit in my locket.
An agreement to fill a gaping spot,
I always fill that of second best, do I not?

Let out a laugh, you’d never believe this.
Tears cover your face in a fine mist.
Glancing out at the building snow,
Your white knuckled hands crush my suicide note.