What is the point
Of living
If half your thoughts
Are suicidal?
If half your days
Are spent in ways
In thoughts that are a tidal
Wave that rushes
Over you
Over your mind
Over your heart.

What is the point
Of breathing
If half your thoughts
Are pure self-hate?
If half your breaths
Imagine countless deaths
And wish to wipe away the slate
Of your life
Clean,
Simply clean,
Perfectly clean.

What is the point
Of singing
Of laughter, of winning,
If each day you live
Only to give
Yourself some relief from the storm
The storm that brews
Inside your mind
Is this right, feeling confined?
Confined to live,
Confined to hate.
Confined to fear,
Confined to fate.