|
Depression goes through the ceiling,
Self-esteem, the floor.
Wear me down, wear me out.
Use me, abuse me more.
Losing some hope that dwells in me,
More I can't discover.
I will not quit just yet.
Yes, I'll always love her.
I give all or let it be taken,
Whichever it may be.
No one cares about these things.
No, they just don't see.
Death is the gift I received at the end
Of this thing I refer to as hell.
Good thing, bad thing, anything.
There's just no way to tell.
Everything dies, and everything sucks.
I can't find a good thing among them.
All the nice things are put out of reach.
Things in my life are just grim.
I try all day to find a reason
For this existence of mine.
I'm baffled again, I wonder when
I'll think things are just fine.
Probably never, I'm too stubborn to
Be satisfied that way.
I will be sad all of my life.
That's what I'd have to say.
There is one thing I can imagine
That would change my mood.
A chance with her, yes, just one
Would change my attitude.
My days would be much brighter.
My life would have a use.
I would remove my head
From this ever-tightening noose.
This is the last poem I wrote about this girl. After calling her regularly for the rest of 9th grade year after I sent the flowers and summer and all of 10th grade year, she finally had enough and told me to quit calling her. I was very upset, but I think I wrote this before that happened and didn't write any more poetry about her afterward.
|