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.)
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.