All my friends are losers who wish they were dead
and I'm one of them.

Smoking like a chimney
of smoke and anger;
wanking like tomorrow is dead;
wanting to overdose on silly pills
with funny names but being too depressed to get my ass off bed and get some.

Crying is for losers and I'm one myself.
I guess if I wasn't I would have been dead.

The knife on my drawer is crushing on me
but I'm too busy crushing on a lad
who wants to vomit at the sight of my scars.

My wall seemed interesting for the last five hours.
But wait - I just remembered my university project and now I'm filled with anxiety.

Breathing.
It isn't the same as living.
But what can I do when my thoughts are eating
off my own feelings
and now I'm left as a skeleton that can't stop reminiscing;
past years, past lives, past kisses,
the promise she said she'd keep but
where is she?

"Now" is what matters but it seems like I forgot.
My mind has trapped me in my own dreams and I'm lost;
now this poem makes me wish I was gone.