People like me aren’t made to be happy
Our intentions are purer than most
Our smiles as wide as the scars we choose not to parade
I’m nothing more than a dark, hollow pit
There are times when I think that maybe I’m made to suffer
Cry out in agony to a god who refuses to lend me an ear
I don’t believe there’s an end to it

So what would be the point of ending it?
Retreating to hugging my neck with a rope
Or jumping in front of a moving bus on a sunny day
Getting into a bar fight, but not fighting back
Hoping a bottle adorns the back of my head

Sometimes it doesn’t have to be as methodical as I would want
Chain smoking until this drum stops beating
Have a few pills and go for a swim
Neglecting my light until the hallway goes dim
Perhaps then I’ll find solace in the angels that ate away at whatever joy I had

I’ve never known peace because it can’t afford to visit here a neighbourhood this vicious
This hell
Where you might watch your friend die in your arms at 12
Lose your father before you tell him you love him, having him limited to stories and pictures too still to evoke emotion
Plotting war against your own mind every single night of your life to try sleeping

People like me aren’t made to be happy.
We ink our skins and tell the stories in a way that makes the meaning of the tattoo less morbid than it is
Drinking avidly to try quiet voices that shouldn’t be there
Going into shock and shaking vigorously whenever the slightest thing goes wrong
And we brood until perfectionist withers into a distant, forgotten myth whose tales will riddle the mind of those he’s left behind
I don’t know how the fuck I thought I could ever be happy