Sometimes I sit back and think
I think of everything I went through...
Is it enough that I'm here?
Does it not matter to you...
I've poured out my blood on paper
And my soul into the words...
My death
is something I long for...
It is over
three little words...
There are shavings and
dust and laughter...
My mind accuses me endlessly
of all the things i let myself be...
Mind blowing how a person can change so quickly
amazing he even noticed my nice doings...
I stand in no fear of any.
I stand in fear for my people...
Frigid air, frostbites the tip of my
whispers to you...
In my book there are old yellow
pages, with fading ink on...
Why shouldn't depression
keep bringing me down...