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."
