Why is there no end to this depression?
What is it they want, what is their discretion?
Your back to the wall, blinded of sight
Blows to the stomach, there's nothing to fight
Alone in the dark, they bury your life
Blood on your hands, cuts from the knife
Figures of pestilence, opening your sores
Revealing your interior of constant wars
Cornered and confined in a terrible state
Words thrown like rocks, pain that you hate
Stripped of life you want to run away
Ignore the boundries, anything they have to say
A fate worse than death is a fate illconceived
For death would end this now if believed
If given a choice of suicidal remorse
You'd spit in their face and say "This Is My Course!"
-written for my dear girlfriend...
...who's life is a living hell-
