Suicide Note

I was asked what the bravest thing that I’ve ever did was,
and my answer was….
“Not making my wrists smile hard enough”
Then I asked myself,
Is this enough?
Is this ink I shed on this paper enough for you?
Or would you prefer me to give you the real stuff?
Would you rather me cut open my wrist for you?
I’ve done it twice before,
and I can do it again it need be.
It comes so naturally to me.
Last night,
I laid in my bed and almost embraced death…
See sometimes I swear I can see God
and he’s telling me to come home.
Sometime I swear He’s pissed
I haven’t listen to the signs He gave me,
the knives He gave me,
why the fuck hasn’t anybody tried to save me?
Am I really that crazy?
Lately I swear shit been talking to me like…
sheets and ropes be telling me we should go for a swing.
Pills be like the can heal all of my pain,
if I take enough of them they can fix everything.
Pools, rivers, and bathtubs tell me that they can hold me under their waters
and protect me from that evil thing called life.
Now knives,
they just wanna hold my wrists.
And guns,
they just wanna kiss my temple
and soothe me into an eternal peace.
They all seem like they wanna help me,
care for me more than you motha fuckas ever did.
So what’s stopping me……
these knives,
are thirsty.
Waiting to get drunk of this wine that flows through me.
1991 was a good year…
Too bad I was born and fucked it all up.
What’s wrong with me?
I can’t stop crying…
My soul is drowning,
and it doesn’t feel like fighting back anymore.
Sometimes I lay down,
and I don’t feel like getting back up.
Sometimes I put this pen down,
and i don’t feel like picking it back up.
What’s the point of writing this?
Don’t nobody care…
Don’t nobody give a fuck what happens to Shay.
They say they do,
but they don’t…
not as much as they care for others.
I’m at the bottom of everybody’s priority list,
so please tell me who the fuck would miss me?
Nobody.
Sometimes i wonder why i really carry pocketknives…
is it really for my own protection?
Or is it just for the satisfaction of knowing I always have an exit?
Maybe it’s to protect me,
from me.
I’m tired of carrying the world on my shoulders.
Tired of trying to help.
Tired of bending over backwards,
being everybody’s stepladder,
helping them get where they need to be,
when they just turn around and shit on me.
My heart is bleeding,
and it’s on it’s last everything.
I feel like I’m screaming silence,
like my tongue has been snatched from me,
like my miscarried baby.
I should have fought harder for the sanctity of my womb,
and now it’s just a wasteland,
uninhabitable,
because it’s been polluted,
cleaned up,
and polluted again.
This is my fault…
I should have fought back.
I’m drained…
These 18 years
have felt more like 18 lifetimes gone to waste,
amounted to nothing.
So useless.
I hate this,
but everybody seem to get a kick out of watching my pain,
so I hope this is a good enough show for you.
Sorry if it comes to an abrupt halt,
and you collide with my misery,
and I’ll tell you,
in it just float…
and consider this,
my suicide note…