A chronic case of worthlessness
I'm just a waste of breath
I wish upon the stars at night
For the peace that comes with death
I want to be comforted with silence
Because the words just hurt so badly
An enclosed coffin to hide away in
Greeting the reaper gladly.
They say life won't be easy but it'd be worth it
As if that's an excuse for all the hurting
I wonder if they listened to their own words as they spoke them
I guess we write to figure things out
Hence why empty pages terrify me so
Even worse when there are no lines left to write
Nowhere else to go, so much more to show, because there's so much they need to know