The News Report says I'm a mess

I'll die in a year, probably less.

My diagnosis is apparently crystal clear:

I've got the fatal disease of living without fear.

After all, there's nothing left on this earth

For me to keep living for, breathing for, being for.

There's no reason for my heart to keep beating

It's so very tempting for me to keep cheating,

I've been trying a little harder everyday

Not to jump in front of a train

Not to smile at another burst of pain

Not to cut my life short

Because I'll die sooner

(please sooner, please soon)

or later anyway.


Now, there's a rumour going around, I hear.

No one cares whether I'm far or near.

I could disappear and they wouldn't notice

I could die and they wouldn't care.

But mention suicide and I shouldn't dare.

Because I'm loved,

(note to self: I am not.)

really loved.


And it is thus that I live on

Life is a chessboard and I'm just a pawn.

Moved by my emotions, I die a bit every day

I look worse for wear, or so they say.

No sleep, no nightmares please.

I'd just like to finish my life in peace.

But the world keeps spinning around me,

And I find myself feeling less and less free.

It's the end

(I hope I choke)

and I'll die either way.