how sad

I feel so silly, but yet see the reflections of pain on my skin. I see my dark thought’s when I see myself in the merrier and then the sad follows when the steps of lonely come in line. I have imagined that someone could get help, but I only get numbers on a paper, and the deep thoughts mean nothing; they tell me the same, and here I am writing. I don’t want to kill myself or others, but at what point will they listen to me? I have said that I have seen bodies; and carried my friend in a bag, and they ask to prove myself. I say that my friend took my place in death for me, and they ask for more. I am sad, in many parts, I can’t sleep any more, nor do I feel happiness. I am but a toy to what others hope to learn from, I wish I was the one being helped. The sad is only what to accept in a one way road that all else fails to the idea of it, so here I am nothing but the thing that is nothing.