You come to me whining
Thinking I’ll listen
But the fact-of-the-matter is
I really don’t want to hear your bitchin.
You drone on about
How your life’s a prison.
I act like I’m concerned,
But I could care less.
After all I’m not your bloody therapist.
Your depression sickens me,
I don’t know why I bother,
If they want somebody to talk to,
They can try their father.
They think they have it bad,
But they can’t see,
The truth about my life
And what it’s done to me
You condemn yourself so early in life,
That you might as well just reach for the knife.
You know nothing of true pain and suffering.
I know of much worse,
Though it not be mine,
It be 100 more than theirs, hands down.
So bad, they cause me to do more than frown.
They have endured so much more
Even though they’re not normal,
But they’re still around just the same
Still hanging on, despite all the pain.
Despite my words,
These children will never catch on
Until they decide to grow up
And not act like a moron.