How much More?
A short poem.
Life is an endless source of pain to the hurt,
A burden to the broken and most of all a reality to the fake.
I write nothing more than about cutting, my constant throwing up, my hatred for my life.
It gets so old how much I nag on life.
I was chosen for a reason, no matter how much I want to give up and how much I never wanted to live in the first place.
If I did not exist everyone’s life would be so much better without all the stress I cause.
How much more can I bed for you to hate me,
How much more ink do I need to waste before God finally feels for me and to just let me go?
It’s hard enough he made me suffer 18 years but really is he going to make me suffer 18 +1?
A burden to the broken and most of all a reality to the fake.
I write nothing more than about cutting, my constant throwing up, my hatred for my life.
It gets so old how much I nag on life.
I was chosen for a reason, no matter how much I want to give up and how much I never wanted to live in the first place.
If I did not exist everyone’s life would be so much better without all the stress I cause.
How much more can I bed for you to hate me,
How much more ink do I need to waste before God finally feels for me and to just let me go?
It’s hard enough he made me suffer 18 years but really is he going to make me suffer 18 +1?
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