Twelve months in a year to live
More than thirteen reasons to die
Folk like me sometimes cry and wonder why cannot we die?
But in the end we consider everything and merely heave a sigh.

If you think killing means suicide you are deeply mistaken my friend
By killing I mean letting go of this hellhole which has no end.


I see people with subpar hand at writing put up on a pedestal
But the true ones can't have our voices heard
It's as if we're trapped inside a crystal.

Putting my ego aside is what I do all the time
While the voice inside my head screams maddeningly, "Just do it, commit the crime."

Intrusive thoughts run till they make me do something drastic...