Janie’s Got A Gun?
I wish I had a gun too.
No matter how hard I try to be happy, I can’t.
At the end of the day, well, at 4 in the morning, I crawl into my bed and cry.
Everyone calls me the attention seeker.
They don’t give a shit about me.
Or if I die.
But I don’t wanna die.
I want to disappear and go to Heaven for a day or two,
Spend time with God.
But I want to live.
But I can’t.
I feel dead.
If I feel dead why should I live?
I hate mom and dad.
They’re life destroyers.
Everyone in this house is suicidal.
But it’s just me who actually tries.
Non of them works.
I tried almost every single fucking way,
None of them worked for me.
I don’t know what I’m talking about.
I hear voices.
I hear a little boy playing a kiddie xylophone.
It’s music to my ears.
But I hear people screaming.
I feel people around me when I’m alone.
No one cares.
No one really does.
The world is a cold place.
I want to make it better.
But everything makes me stop.
Even a giant falls when he is hit with many spears, or shot by guns many times.
I’ve already fallen.
Now everyone’s just poking me and stabbing my eye,
To see if I’m still alive or not.
I should just go.