Thoughts of death

When i pull my hair with distress
i think of me in a blood stained dress.
I'm sick of trying to impress,
everybody else.
i just don't get it, it doesn't make sense.
to act different around your 'perfect' friends.
but this acting job never ends.
thoughts of death flood my mind
thinking questions of answers i can't find.
with people there who constantly remind me
of my trouble and my pain.
how many problems can one obtain?
how many secrets can one sustain?
to take one to die?
take one to kill,
themselves of free will?