In this pitiless existance called life,

I've faced almost nothing but strife,

My happiness long denied,

So in no one shall I confide.


My well of tears long drained,

Mind now scarred and stained,

I started ignored and abused,

But now am alone and used.


My life matters not to me,

More misery is all I forsee,

Overlooked by all around,

Sanity on Shakey ground,


I know not when or where,

I shall though make a swear,

By my hand it all shall end,

With my life I can't contend.


Soon to be gone,

Taken like a pawn,

My memory fading,

Body decaying.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This isn't a cry for help, but simply a way for me to vent. I write poems like this to try and process the thoughts, so I'm less likely to act on them.

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allets's picture

Imamu Imiri Baraka Wrote

a book of poetry entitle: Preface To A Twenty Volume Suicide Note. This poem made me think of that as you obviously intend to live and be a poet like him. Nuff said. - allets -