Oh, gentle death.
Cradles you like a mothers embrace.
Cold, stiffness, siece to live.
I try my hardest to get to it.
It is like an addiction to meth.
Trying to get something, you know you should not get.
Wabting it makes you ugly.
And takes away your friends.
If anyone can help me.
Why don't they help?
Do they take pleasure in my suicidal thoughts?
I hate them for hating me.
Maybe they do see.
My slow death coming towards them.
What if they tried to stop it?
I will never know because now I am dead.
So many attempts to end it.
One finally succeded.
Learn from this.
Do not respect it.
People tore me down bit by bit.
But some helped me.
They gave me a kind word.
Now I left them.
Why did I do the absurd?
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