It's a Self-Help Saturday, he shouted at his mirror.
Not a friend in the God Damn City would lend a listening ear.
Sat down with his newest pen, and wrote a letter to himself.
"I'm not interested in Love," he wrote, "I want something else."
He waltz's on his paper, leaving lines to ryhme in three.
Then wonders where his pen is, as he cries himself to sleep.
He sees himself each day, further from the mirror.
Someone had better listen quick, someone had better hear.
Switch.
He writes about suicide, no one takes the hint.
He'd never use the blades he took everywhere he went.
He's running out of patience, his page is filling up.
He can't afford another notebook, he lost his favorite coffee cup.
He walks slower.
He trips.
He stopped.
He ended.
Ending.
Glossy suface words make everything ok.
No one can read the real you, when metaphors hide the way.
Relax, it's too dark for anyone to hear.
Besides, the only one listening, is standing in the mirror.
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