Curl Up and Die

I'm sad, and I don't deserve it.
It's too good for me, a lonely sinner.
This charm, niceness, and wit
don't always come out the winner...

I am a basket case, am I even human?
Too many thoughts, too many feelings,
and every time I try to overcome it,
whether it be by poetry, Jesus, or weed...

It always come back.

Depression rolls up like a midsummer storm,
dark, scary, I want to hide, I want away!
No person living with this can live the norm
that's why I'm different, but it wasn't always that way.

People fucked, I watched with interest.
My parents screamed, I ran away.
Bullies laughed, punched me with an invisible fist
and I just ran away.

Rappers sagged their pants, and I copied them.
Tighty whities showing through...maybe that says something.
That wasn't me, but I wasn't for Anna.
Sagging is for low-lifes who judge based on bling.

I smoked the weed, that damned horrible dummy-maker.
Peter laughed and Stewie cried, and I healed a little bit inside
because if I couldn't think, I couldn't feel...
my parents screamed, I stopped that night.

I live life a nervous wreck, scared of every single thing.
Scared of death, scared of people, scared of growing out of my rut.
I can curl up and cry, or I can stand up and die.
All this time I never realized that I was also a slut.

Guys can be those too.

Stab me, shoot me, push me, burn me...
whatever I do, I'll never be free
until I let go. Which happens with time...

Look, I just wrote another useless poem.
What good will it do? Will people ever know them?
Why do I write? Why do I care?

I am just one messed up person...
I've created a monster.

Oh, Lord; I need help.