each and everyday is a part of my history, a history that will be with me forever. unfortunately, i know that forever, i am going to look back on these years of my life and all i’m going to see will be an ugly kid with mental illnesses and no friends, just, wasting her life away. i want my history, i want my past, present, and future, to be happy, i want to do something worthwhile rather than just doing this wasting. uhm, yeah… this is not really what i imagined my life would be like.
Invite, to hook
I was never
From the cycle
I’m going to go
And then you can
Go back, to your true
Or you can get a hold
Bill Clinton for me
Creation, of the blossom
Save my m!@#$%^&* life
What are you thinking
Do you know, yet
Who am i?
All of you are thinking it.
“Who is that kid?
The one that killed himself,
I think I’ve seen him before,
But I’m not sure.”
Let me put your minds at ease.
You have all seen me.
Ive always been here.
I’m the kid in the back seat of the class.
I’m the kid that you see eating lunch alone in the hall.
I’m the kid you whisper about as you walk by.
The kid that teachers never punish.
Because they’re scared of me too.
I’ve always been there,
Its funny that after only one year,
I’ve already developed my final opinions of you.
There are those of you out there that can rest easy.
My death is not on your hands.
It may not seem like it, but I noticed when you did something nice for me.
Then there are those of you, and you know who you are,
That have to carry this blame with you for the rest of your lives.
Thinking of my approaching death brings a smile to my face.
Because i know that with my death,
You will suffer a tiny fraction of what you put me through.
No matter how much you deny it,
You feel the guilt gnawing at your conscience.
The only reason I have left to live,
Would be to see how you are affected.
It’s unfortunate that i cannot see how my death impacts everyone.
I would like to imagine that something is done about it.
Maybe people will take depression more seriously.
Because if you haven’t noticed, i am clinically depressed.
IT SUCKS BY THE WAY
I believe the term is pessimism.
Where everything seems negative.
Well multiply that by infinity then add suicidal to the mix.
That’s depression when you are treated like i am.
People live with depression, sure.
When they have strong support and constant distractions.
My support is almost non-existent.
And my only distraction is school,
Which is so easy that it isn’t really distracting.
(PreAP my ass)
So my depression was hard enough without all of you making it worse.
Pointing out every flaw i have.
Making fun of everything i do.
Don’t like my jacket?
I wonder if you would like whats under the sleeves.
I think you’d only make fun of that too.
Let me guess,
“Only pussies cut themselves!”
Maybe if people were more sensitive, aware, and understanding
Then the suicide rate would go down.
All of you are in denial about the whole issue.
Take the website I posted this on for example,
A whole community of people post suicide notes.
Did you know that?
I wonder how many follow through on the site,
A whole website for people like me.
And a whole world for ignorant monsters like you.
But i guess that’s life.
And i’m sick of it.
Sick of everything about it.
So, I bet you know the answer to the question now.
Who am I?
In case you can’t figure it out,
PS.Â I am truly sorry to my family. And my few friends. You don’t deserve this. It’s not you’re fault. But I guess i’m just too selfish. I’ve contained myself for years. You knew that i had these problems, but if you never expected this, I’m sorry. It is my time. I can only contribute to the good of this world in death. That seems to be the only way for them to take anything seriously. “Oh cancer? Don’t make fun of that!” But “Oh, you’re such a retard! LOL” I guess if you die, its not funny. So hopefully depression won’t be so funny for these people anymore. I digress… I will miss you. And I will be watching over you. Helping you out, like you helped me. I love you, now and forever.
Yesterday was nothing but a dream
It never really happened
WhenÂ I look outside the windowÂ I see nothing but a nightmare
The dreams thatÂ I once accepted are now all gone
Just a faded memory
The only time that I’ll wake up from this nightmare
When my prince will come and rescue me
From this prisoned darkness.
The blackest of them all
AÂ pit where infinity goes on forever
AÂ melt down
An angel that will carry me off
Carry my heart with them.
I already miss that feeling.
Darkness and the enemy has taken me away for a long time
It was such an adventure but now
IÂ just want to feel safe
And feel loved
I want my broken wings to be fixed
IÂ already learned my lessons
I don’t want to repeat them anymore
IÂ just want someone to pick me up now
IÂ am done trying
I’m done trying to fix
And broken friendships
IÂ am just done trying
Time does not run in seconds, hours or days. For me it runs in nights. I wake up as the sun sets, eat dinner for breakfast, and say goodnight to my loved ones. Alone I sit through the endless nights, watching time fly by, wondering why the sun is rising before I’ve had the chance to live. As the first rays of dawn pierce my aching eyes, I begin to prepare for my journey into the dreamworld. The only place where I can truly live in vivid and terrifying detail. Nights pass by, one after the other, most of which I cannot remember. Vague images of video games, anime, comic books and fantasy novels resurface with effort. Is this life?
Another twelve hours pass by in the dreamworld, where I explore the streets of strange yet familiar cities built from memories of happier times. I embrace long lost friends and family. I taste, smell, hear, feel and fear. I love and I cry. The lingering memories upon awakening are as sharp as needles within my head. I drift in and out of sleep for hours, reluctant to leave this alternate reality. Is this life?
I have too much time to ponder, to think, to speculate and to prophesy.
What is reality, when the reality that I am told is true feels false, and its facsimile feels real? Which life will I remember more upon dying, the life I led in the physical world or the life I lived within my imagination?
I rarely leave my room. I rarely leave my apartment. The world outside feels hollow, distant, threatening. People feel strange, fake, cold. Time runs by too fast. I see everything change around me, people I once knew turn into strangers, people I love age and die. I see the harsh oblivion that awaits me and I turn cold in terror. The oblivion I once foolishly welcomed now frightens me more than anything. For if my life has been one meaningless speck lost in the noise of infinity, then why am I even here? Why should we strive for anything if it is to be torn from us in the end? Why not just live day by day in meaningless mundanity as I have done for the past two years? All that we are, all that we love, all that we thought to have achieved, our very memoryâ€¦ will someday disappear without a trace. I am obviously not here to procreate, nor to better the world with my ambition, therefore, what is my purpose?
I am expected to struggle for survival like everyone else. To be pushed and molded through all the conventions on the automatic assembly line of society.
Our culture has done the difficult task of questioning for us. Our artificial goals have been set in place since the moment we erupt from our mother’s womb. Make friends, become popular, do well in school, score high grades, become physically desirable, graduate, begin the whole process again in university, get a job, be successful, get married, have kids, make money, become famousâ€¦
If heavy social conditioning has failed to shape you into the perfect human being, what else is there left for you?
Life still goes on no matter who you are, time flies the same way every day and yet you have fallen through the cracks of an artificial world to become a ghost that haunts the periphery of human culture.
A pariah, ostracized, your humanity ripped right out of you.
Forgotten, laid aside, lost to apathetic glances on the street.
A parasite, a delinquent, a hippie, a commie, a punk, a bum, a hoodlum, a hobo, a loser, a nobody, a good-for-nothing, a ******, a dyke, a mutant, a freak, a waste-of-breath, a fucker, a hikikomori, a joke, a scarecrow, a geek, a pervert, a monster, a junkie, a spineless-bastard, a weirdo, a disappointment and an underachiever.
That’s what they’ll call me.
Your life becomes your own. Once you begin to make your own meaning, your own morals and beliefs, your own societyâ€¦
You have found your purpose.
In Othello, Desdemona is smothered by her lover, Othello. Throughout the past year I’ve been telling myself I could never do that to you(I could never do that, physically, to you). However, it dawns on me that my pounding on your door when you needed space was in fact me smothering you. I am smothering you now just by sending you this letter. I am so sorry for this, for everything.
Bronte said it best between Jane Erye and Rochester: There is something inexplicable beneath my left ribs that was once connected to you in a similar fashion; but that connection has been severed and now I bleed inwardly.
Time stands still in dreams; I being poor have only my dreams. In my dream I love you always. I have loved you through eternity — a depth of forever multiplied by infinity — through time and space. Time stands still for me because you are the love of my eternity.
I believe(ed) that a higher power aligned our paths for a reason. My belief was only fortified by coincidences that couldn’t be happenstance. However, there is the variable of free-choice that determines whether or not our paths cross. I tried to force your choice by smothering you with pleas, with my life. There aren’t words that can express my sorrow for what I did and am doing to you. But, I am so sorry.
I don’t know why time started its tic-toc again for you or why you stopped loving me before we broke up, but I know time stands still for me as I love you more than Othello did Desdemona, Rochester did Erye, or Dante did Beatrice.
I have spread my dreams beneath your feet. I will be sent to jail for ten years, but my dream will persist through frozen time. However, I won’t write to you again although hope keeps me waiting to hear from you. I miss you forever and always.
When I think about life and the meaning of it, I realise that there actually isn’t any meaning to it at all. Basically, the less than 100 years given to us on the planet are nothing compared to the infinity of death waiting for us.
Life is fleeting and death is eternal. What’s even the point?
For every second of our lives, there’s an infinity of death out there, biding its time.
I understand the whole ‘you make your own meaning’ thing about life, and that it’s ‘what you make it’, but that doesn’t give it any more relevance in my opinion.
Right now I’m actually happy, which makes a nice change, but that hasn’t stopped me from considering the pointlessness of life in general. One day we’ll all be dead. One day the human race will be forced into oblivion. One day, there’ll be no record of us or our race left on the earth. Every little tiny thing we did will have been for nothing.
It’s just kind of hopeless, really.
Maybe it would be easier if I wasn’t so Â totally aware of the uselessness of life?
Thing is, I prefer ugly truths to beautiful lies.
The honest ugliness of life beats the dishonest beauty.
Nothing is ever as it seems, unless it seems horrible- then it’s worse.
I don’t really know what to say except that I’m hurting.
I’m lost in the blackest of blues and the coldest of blacks; the half-light is gone. There are no stars and I have no compass. I walk the flat lands knowing where you are, but knowing I can never go there again. Emotional pain slams into me wave after wave only to wrap itself around my heart, squeezing, before releasing for the next wave.
I’m so sorry for what I did to you, yet, there is nothing that I can say, no amount of self-flagellation that can redeem me in your eyes — I’m a rat.
My apology, my fear, my loss, my desire — they are multiplied by infinity and taken to a depth of forever.
You are my one true love; my first love from the beginning.
In the darkness you see a light
A gun and a single shot is in sight.
Both hands for the table you reach
You smile and think of that day at the beach.
You load the gun and give it a spin
*Click* it seems this time you win.
You on the table your blinking phone
along with that beautiful and subtle tone.
You open the phone and there it reads,
“You are a good friend Zeke, indeed.”
But your feelings for her are infinitely more
Even when you look down the center of this bore.
Your purpose in life seems to be complete
To be a friend to someone that isÂ joyful and sweet.
You give it a spin for this final rhyme
To fail at love once,
Means to fail every time.
Thank you for reading.
If you’re sad,
and you’re sad that you’re sad, then you’re sad
that you’re sad
that you’re sad.
And then you’re sad
that you’re sadÂ
that you’re sadÂ
that you’re sad.Â
And so on.
If you’re happy that you are sad, then you’re sad.
If you’re sad that you’re happy, then you’re sad.