With their problems they always come to me.

I don’t mind helping friends and family,

But it leaves me no time to focus on who I’m supposed to be.

I don’t want them to worry, they only see what I want them to see.

Just a caterpillar that never became a butterfly.

An astronaut that never broke the sky.

People think I’m joking when I tell them their society gives me anxiety.

My house is either quiet like a hollow tree or loud and violent like world war 3.

I want my own life, two kids and a wife, a dog that can run in a backyard.

This place I only dream of, I can let down my guard.

I lay awake at night.

To much anger and crying, not strong enough to fight.

My clothes are suffocating.

The silence is irritating.

What am I supposed to do when you say you want to take your life?

What am I supposed to do when you grip that knife?

How can I sit here and lie to you saying everything will be okay,

When I don’t even know if I’ll live to see another day.

I look in the mirror and see all the things that I hate.

My future is my reflection, it isn’t looking great.

Happiness seems impossible with this mental state.

How can I set out to be, the person I’m supposed to be.

When everyone gives me their problems, I can’t solve them undoubtedly.

I know my attitude is depressing.

All my feelings I’ve been repressing.

On my knees pleading, please

I need help times three

But there’s only me.

Only me.