I'd feel like a stranger at my own funeral-
who's that in the box, dressed better in death
than I ever managed in life?
Better than my quiet attempts-those empty rehearsals
at suicide.

Was this the last chance I had left?
Even in death, my voice isn't heard-
nor the screaming ones trapped inside my skull.
Even my ghost wouldn't believe it's dead,
still hoping the lives I tried to save
might pay my way past the gates,
buy out my debts.

But what if there's no heaven waiting?
What if another kind of hell greets me instead?
What if I never see my old friends again-
never laugh without fear,
never smile without pretending?
What if I never stop
being so ******* afraid
so strangely ashamed
to feel nothing,
to be numb to even shame itself?

All I wanted
was to be born again-
not into some perfect life,
but one that wouldn't lead me
back to searching for another end.
And isn't it strange-
how only in death do we see our regrets
with such clarity?
Because there's nowhere left to run from them
once we get
to the end.

I just asked you few things to keep in mind,
Before you open your mouth to talk about me.
I have clearly expressed my intension to stay away from the crowd
But how come you forget this every time?
Every time?
I can't fathom this act of yours.
This running circle of arguments just because you don't listen.
I am fed up, fed up, fed up of this.