A Poem

Alone, a feeling that never leaves.

Winter, Fall, Spring, Summer.

It never leaves.

Suicide, something that always passes.

Yet theirs nothing more then for me,

What else can I do.

My mind is always empty,

With no thought of staying alive.

Everyone would mourn for me.

Am I doing this to be selfish?

People ask me why.

I am in enough pain as is.

Theirs nothing more for me here.

Thank you for my time,

I don’t deserve any of you. 

- R