said of me was right.
do i even work hard?
i don’t even make money.
i can’t even drive.
what do i do with my life?
are people even gonna
care what i write here?
another poem like this?
the more i grow,
the worse i get.
no one cares for me.
no one likes my poems.
i don’t like suicide, but
i sometimes feel like i’ll
die and no one will care.
i worry that so many will
just shrug and move on.
i know i won’t do it, but
i feel like i would just be
better off dead, and the
world would be so much
happier without me in it.
and every time i try to tell
myself that’s not the truth,
i just believe it even more.
i feel so vulnerable,
i feel so afraid, and
i’m losing my faith.
i’m scared of growing,
i already feel so alone.
i don’t know if i can do this.
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