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Game Over

Just take me away from this awful place.
It makes me want to die to see that look on your face.

I can't stand my existence... it bothers me so.
But as easy as it seems, it's hard to let go.

I sat on the floor and slit my wrist,
But all you do is stand there, and bare your fist.

I'm all alone inside, and more alone on the out.
My anger swells and my hate and sadness shout.

My wrist stings. It throbs. It hurts as it bleeds.
And that little bit of death in my pain reveals my only needs.

This act I put on is so obviously played.
The reasons just add up the longer I've stayed.

I'm lost in my world, and nothing makes sense.
Why do they do this? The question's mass becomes dense.

Why do they say life is so great when it hasn't proven this to me?
And why do I take this? Should I just leave it be?

Sometimes I wish I was never, at all, sober.
And other times I just wish life's screen would say,

"Game Over."