See this paper in my hand; see those papers on the ground?

Another crappy angst poem, just another hate-filled notebook,

just one way to vent, and try to get rid of all this rage.

Systematic, razor sharp, one evil thought after another,

what's the point of living when you just die in the end?

Try to change the world, but the world goes down with me.

Got to get my wrath out, better on paper than on someone I love.

What's love? Just another rant and rave to another person.

Isn't that right? Isn't that right? Isn't that right?

I just don't understand anything, like people don't understand me.

I'll try to keep my eyes open, but they just shut on their own.

I'm trying to prevail in this race, but I'm just falling behind.

All I'm doing is digging my own grave instead of rising up.

So what's the point of writing another poem, when they all seem the same?

Tell me you love, tell me you hate it. Tell me you love me, tell me you hate me.

It just doesn't matter anymore. It's just another flame on a candle.

Give me your hand, or snatch it away, either way I'll probably die.