When I was fifteen, it was the first time I tried to end my scene.
Id hurt and cut myself on the daily,
Couldnt handle how I felt, ‘n every fucker thought me crazy.
The kinda shit that turned me crazy-er.
“Why be depressed?” they’d say,
“You look good,
You’re so smart,
Everybody likes you.”
Well, im filled with regrets,
I’m never good enough.
Life been tough, turned me cold,
didn’t like anybody. Ever since i was three years old.
So fuck the fact they might act like they like me.
I can’t be fucking happy and I always despise me.
And whenever someone asked me,
“What do you want to do after your teens?”
I never had an answer.
I was sure I’d kill myself before eighteen.
Please don’t blame me for not having prospects.
When I was eighteen
my eyes saw things most adults hadn’t seen nor dreamed.
Mature? Maybe.
Sure of what I was doing,
Tho I was drowning on the daily.
Addicted to all the sorts of drugs I was using,
any I would get my hands on and the Self harm got worse,
but I was functioning.
Moving with tremendous force.
So they figured I’d be okay.
Stuffed me with them meds for days to brighten up the face I portray.
Never did they have in mind..
Maybe it’s too late.
And whenever someone asked me,
“What do you want to become?”
I didn’t have an answer.
Thought I’d kill myself before twenty-one.
Please don’t blame me for not having prospects.
When I was twenty-one I met this girl,
And now, whenever someone’d ask me What I want to become,
I still wouldn’t know.
Tho I didn’t see my life undone.
As long as there was love I thought.
Was thinking ‘bout possible jobs,
maybe become a writer on the side.
Felt good ‘bout my foresights.
Please don’t blame me
For having small, lame-ass prospects back then.
They were my first ones.
When I was twenty-three,
I lost myself and what I thought was real.
By now, I should know how to deal with,
but what do you do with life,
Except ending the feel?
I’ve been trying to suicide
and I thought I wouldn’t make it to twenty five.
Not paranoid—just learned my lesson.
Done with the fun, now I avoid everyone
to avoid that goddamn question.
“What do you want to be?”
Now I’m almost twenty-five.
Can’t count on my fingers how many times
I did done tried ‘n take my life.
I’ve got people asking me how I thrive.
Tho I struggle to show‘em how or why I got this fly.
I tell‘em I’m not lucky in what I gained,
but life is good, I can’t complain.
They think I’m cocky cuz I tell’em I don’t even try.
But it’s the truth, I’m just too tired to lie.