better off dead

all that shit that was
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.