Writing one of those angsty poems
about how the world sucks and I want to die
is pretty typical
for me.
I suppose sunshine is not only boring
but fake,
too bright for my eyes
when I’ve been in the dark for so long.
Do you blame me
for writing like that, for feeling that way?

The world sucks
and it probably won’t get any better any time soon
for you or for me
so you better suck it up and shut up
or find a way to leave it
because
no one gives a s*** about you
or what you have to say
or your whining or your pain
unless it concerns them
and the people that do will be squashed out like bugs anyway
because the nice guy always finishes last:
that is the lesson I have so cruelly learned.

I suppose I’m cliché that way
but it’s true;
it’s just the truth that no one wants to admit.
Depression opens your eyes that way
and, once it does, in a way, it can never really close.
You can either live your life in the rat race
or not at all
because the bright future you think you’ll have
probably won’t be.
But it hurts people to be realistic
even though it hurts me more to dream.